


The Business of Saving Souls

by RurouniHime



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Community: hd_holidays, Dark Magic, Depression, Falling In Love, First Date, First Kiss, First Time, Ghosts, HP: EWE, M/M, Post - Deathly Hallows, Reconciliation, Secrets, Self-Destruction, Shower Sex, Slow Build, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco's world is filled with ghosts, and not all of them are so easily banished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Naadi](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Naadi).



> This was written for the second hd_holidays livejournal fic exchange. Many thanks to Wikipedia for being a wonderful resource for all things ghostly and flower-symbolism-related in this story.

"Tell me about your business. How is that shaping up?"

Draco frowned across the room, across his crossed legs, across the small redwood coffee table. "You already know everything about it, may I remind you?"

She graced him with an amused half-smile. "It's been some time since we've spoken of it. I'd like to hear what's been going on."

Draco sat back, smirking, and adopted a slight simper. "Well, then. I've a business of my own. A steady one, and legitimate, as long as people keep dying without bothering to move the fuck— I'm sorry. Without bothering to move on to the next realm."

"One thing I've always wondered: do you actually believe there is a 'next realm?'"

Draco snorted. "I could care less either way. I'm twenty-five years old. Not planning on dropping down dead anytime soon."

She studied him. Some days he really hated the way she did that. Today it didn't catch his ire, particularly. "And how have you been handling the home visits? Anyone you know lately?"

Draco shrugged. "Everyone seems to know me. Never seen _them_ before, but hells, that's about as valid as a set of dress robes on a Flobberworm, isn't it?"

She smiled. Tilted her chin. "Are you still Polyjuicing?"

He picked up his water glass. Set it down again. "Went without the other day. First appointment. I swear, I thought the woman's eyes were going to pop right out of her undersized little skull. But I was just too damn tired to Polyjuice first thing."

She nodded. "And how did she feel about it afterward?"

"I've no bloody idea, and I don't particularly care how she felt. Her attic is blessedly spirit-free, regardless."

"I imagine that calmed her."

"I didn't ask." Draco raised an eyebrow when she didn't answer. "What? Now you want me to inquire as to how they all feel?"

She took a sip of her own water, face annoyingly peaceful. "How did it feel to you, then? To be in your own skin?"

"Like bloody vengeance." Draco smirked. "Serves them right, you know. They all want the service, without the black mark. As if the world revolved around them."

"Do you think you'll try it again?"

"I already have. You know, it was quite empowering." He relaxed back into the couch cushions with a sigh. "The look on that woman's face was more than enough to whet my taste for it. And she couldn't say a damned word about that sour fig she'd swallowed, not if she wanted her quaint little house cleared out."

She nodded. "You enjoy feeling powerful, Draco, that's no secret."

"I like to put them in their places. Bloody imbeciles."

"So," she said, settling back into her own chair. "You did it again? That's excellent, you know."

"Well, I'm only running out of Polyjuice is all," he answered. She nodded encouragingly. He looked down. "I don't know. Some days I want to. Others… I just can't…"

He stopped. She _hmm_ ed thoughtfully.

"How are your funds?"

"Booming." Draco picked up his water and took a sip. "I send Magdalena out three times a week now. She's grown quite good at it. Brings in more than a few Galleons. I don't send her to the real bigwigs, mind you, but soon. She's ready."

"And who are the real bigwigs?"

Draco shrugged. "Haven't had all that many lately. It comes in waves. I think the ghosts have some sort of warped schedule." He resisted the urge to get up and walk. "But I did have an interesting visit yesterday."

* * *

The door opened, and so did Potter's mouth. "Malfoy."

"Potter." Draco raised his eyebrows, wondering if he needed to step back to avoid the door breaking his nose. Potter blinked owlishly at him from behind his spectacles. And after a moment, stepped aside.

Draco inclined his head and entered the darkened foyer. He heard the door groan shut behind him. Old place; he could smell the musk as if it were taking up residence in his nostrils. Once he was a safe distance inside, he turned, straightening his shoulders, and found Potter staring at him. His eyes were deep forest green in the muted light.

"What?" Draco said at last. "You didn't know I owned the company?"

Potter raised one hand aimlessly and let it drop. Shoved it into his jeans pocket. "No, I… I knew." He shrugged, and his other hand found its way into his other pocket. "Just didn't think you would be the one who showed up."

It was the slightest of curls to the word 'you' that sparked Draco's irritation.

"Naturally, a customer of your caliber warrants the best we have to offer," he said, and watched Potter's eyes narrow at the not-quite-concealed snide lilt to his words.

The foyer itself was begging him to shift his weight. Draco cleared his throat instead. "Well. If that's all settled. I believe you contacted us for a reason?"

"Right." Potter livened into action, stepping past Draco almost too quickly for him to react. "It's… Here. This way."

Draco turned again and followed Potter down an equally dark hallway that spilled into a long but narrow sitting room. With a dusty desk. A faded couch. And a feeling of lifelessness. Draco stopped short. What was this, the spare room? Or didn't Potter ever use it?

"Do you just pass through from time to time?" he said aloud, eyeing the worn track through the dusty floor. Potter turned.

"I live upstairs mostly," was all he said.

This wasn't Grimmauld. No wonder he hadn't known who he would meet at the front door. Draco followed Potter again, out of the derelict sitting room and into a shorter hallway. A stairwell ahead; Potter climbed up with one hand gracing the banister. Draco placed his fingers more carefully, and the wood jumped beneath his hand.

Very old. Perhaps as old as the Manor.

He pursed his lips. Not that he'd ever see that place again.

There were quite a few stairs. Draco could feel the air growing denser as he went. At first he thought it the heat, trapped into a closed house because of the rain outside. When it began to tingle over his throat and neck, he changed his mind.

Harry turned again at the top of the stairs and gestured toward a closed door at the end of another murky-looking hallway. "It's in the attic."

 _Like hell it is,_ Draco thought. He eyed the door. And then the air trickled like chilled water, and Draco blinked.

"Just in the attic?"

Potter glanced at the door, then up over his head as if he could see through the ceiling into the space above. "I've never seen it down here."

"You've seen it?"

Just a nod. The air trickled again more vibrantly. Draco felt the distinct presence of _female_ …and then gone. The thing above him, though…

"You've more than one here, Potter." Draco withdrew his wand, half expecting Potter to go for his in retaliation, but the man just stood there, staring up at the ceiling, not looking the least bit surprised. Draco whispered a soft spell and felt not two, not three, but four separate tremors. Two were much more antagonistic than the others. Something shifted violently down through the air toward him, and Draco stared up at the ceiling as well. "That's a Doppelgänger upstairs."

For the sake of Merlin's children, he hoped Potter hadn't been fool enough to go up there. Potter lowered his eyes at last to look at Draco. His jaw tightened. "I think I can figure out what a Doppelgänger feels like, Malfoy."

"Good. Then you'll know better than to go after that one first." Draco sneered and flourished his wand, and a thin sheaf of papers rolled out of the air. "Sign these."

Just as quickly, Harry magicked a worn-looking quill out of the air and grabbed the papers. Instead of signing, however, he peered at the printed ink, flipping messily through the pages. "I fully absolve the above parties of all— What in Godric's name is this?"

"My insurance," Draco snapped, snatching the papers from him and putting them back into some sort of order. "So you don't decide to come after me if anything in your precious home is blasted beyond all repair during the cleansing process."

Harry's stare was stony and ripply at the same time, much like the energy of the entities around them. He reached out and took the papers back with a firm tug. Plucked the quill out of the air. Signed something scraggly and careless on the bottom line of each page.

Draco opted to find the female presence first. A simple lost ghost, probably uncertain even of where she was. Or far too certain, and needing only a little shove to go elsewhere. But five minutes into his perusal of the upstairs rooms, Potter was still with him.

Draco hunkered down next to an ancient and moth-bitten credenza and shot him an acidic glare. The other man was hunkered down right beside him. "Did you _want_ something, Potter?"

The other man grinned at him, but it most decidedly was not meant to reach his eyes. Potter crossed his arms. "Just protecting my investment, Malfoy."

Draco sneered. "Well, then. You _have_ grown smarter."

Potter just sneered back.

* * *

"It's all there," Draco said offhandedly, already feeling the little office like an ill-fitting skin.

Granger glowered at him over the top of the statements she held in her pristine little hands. Her eyes dropped back to the papers coolly, lips pursed into a tiny, irritated pucker. Draco smirked, feeling nothing but satisfaction over the fact that she was as annoyed as he. He cocked his head. "And I haven't tampered with any of the numbers."

She sniffed to herself and kept reading. "Well. Everything seems to be in order."

"Perhaps you'd like to visit the offices and make absolutely certain I haven't turned them into a Death Eater halfway house," he said caustically.

To her credit, Granger smirked back at him. "I hardly think that's necessary. You haven't the standing in that group to manage such an endeavor."

Draco tamped down hard on the urge to hex her perfect desk into disarray. He folded his itching fingers into his robes and forced a scathing smile in her direction. "Thank you ever so much for reminding me, Granger. I'll be sure to count myself out of the reunion."

She let out an exasperated huff and flicked her wand, sending the statements hovering and then folding themselves into the burgeoning file on her desktop. "Really, Malfoy. You needn't be such an arse."

"Simply returning the gesture. I was brought up not to overlook the generosity of others, if you'll remember."

Her irises could have set fire to every piece of paper in the room. She folded her hands deliberately on top of his file and looked right at him. Either her jaw was ticking or it was just wishful thinking. "Are you still attending sessions with your appointed therapist?"

For a second, he was very tempted to say no. "Why, yes, I am. Delightful way to spend an afternoon a week. You ought to try it sometime. It might loosen up that horrendous knot in your shoulders."

"Your business seems to be flourishing," she said, ignoring his statement. Draco frowned.

"I'm so sorry that it irks you."

She sighed. "It doesn't _irk_ me, Malfoy. For Godric's sake. I'm simply updating your file with all relevant data. What are your plans for the next six months?"

He smiled tartly. "I plan to savour my last half a year of your so watchful care before my probationary periods finally end. And then I have plans to continue on with the business as I have been doing for the last two years."

She was scowling at him. "Malfoy, it wasn't my choice how long your probation lasts. Do you think I'd really ask to be saddled with you anymore than you'd request to be weighed down with me?"

"No," he allowed grudgingly. "But you needn't take it personally. Your Ministry members are the ones who decided on my terms of service in the first place. It's not as if I chose to make my living off of disembodied, curse-twisted souls. And it's not my fault that I was good at it, either. You've only yourselves to blame for my business."

"They aren't _my_ Ministry members," Granger muttered. She shook her head dismissively and picked up his file, shunting it quickly into a drawer and slamming it shut with a loud bang. She lifted her wand and magicked a glass of pumpkin juice out of thin air, then raised one eyebrow at him questioningly and indicated her beverage. Draco said nothing, and she shrugged and took a long sip. "I understand you saw Harry this week."

"Brilliant deductive work, Granger." Draco smiled at her, narrowing his eyes. "And exactly where _did_ you get that information?"

The look she turned on him was even less controlled than usual. "Frankly, I'm surprised you even bothered with the pleasantries. If you wanted so badly to contact him, you could have arranged for it somewhere other than his private home."

"Again with the scapegoating." Draco could feel his teeth clenching. "It's not as if I Flooed the Royal Saviour and begged him to bless me with work, Granger. _He_ contacted _my_ office."

She looked as if she were about to burst out with something, but he saw her tuck it back in behind her cold expression. Her lips pursed and he heard her inhale. Exhale. "Well. Don't expect him to get you out of any trouble. He's got his own life, and contrary to popular belief, he's not just a 'royal saviour.' He's a person."

Draco raised his eyebrows and smirked. "Merlin. You're certainly touchy today. I've no despicable designs on your bloody Boy Wonder. As long as he's civil, I will be. You needn't get so bent out of shape about it."

"If I'm bent out of shape, it's only because you are here," she snapped. She stood with a jerk and walked to the doorway, pulling the door open. Draco rose, just as annoyed, and gathered his cloak.

"Six months, Granger. Then I'm out of your sordid little Mudblood life. And gladly."

"Have a lovely evening, Malfoy," she returned with a too-sweet smile.

* * *

"So that's that." Draco shut his eyes and rolled his head on his neck. Back and forth, back and forth. "I've given up on it. Paperwork's too bloody complicated, and they'll never give any of it back to me anyway. Spiteful bastards. Probably all auctioned off by now."

She nodded, a resigned twist to her lips. "The cabinet's not exactly the best way to memorialise your family's name, is it?"

Draco snorted. "Believe me, it's enough. I'm quite happy I got it."

She frowned vaguely. "You haven't been sampling from it, have you?"

"Salazar, no. I don't just ignore your medical advice, you know. Bloody cabinet just… makes me feel powerful, I suppose."

"How so?"

Draco shrugged and readjusted his position on the couch. "It just does." Her gaze did not waver, and Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh, you know. It's all right there. I could get it if I wanted. But I don't. I could drink it all. But I don't. It feels good to sneer at it every morning. He would have liked that."

"Your father?"

Draco grinned. "Well. It's _his_ bloody liquor going to waste in there, isn't it?"

"That sounds as if it satisfies you." She raised her eyebrows expectantly at him when he met her gaze. Gestured. "To slight him. After the fact."

"Serves him right, I say." Draco frowned down at his hands. "His fault I'm such an easily recognisable target. All people have to do is look for… well, him."

"You've nothing of your mother in you?"

Draco sighed, exasperated. "Of course I have. But that doesn't exactly make me any less reviled, does it?"

She sent him a calm smile. "Some people won't see your father when they look at you. And some people will just see through it."

"Not in this lifetime."

She didn't answer immediately.

* * *

The candle's flame flickered, and the movement was echoed by the whistle of wind beyond dusty, weathered walls. The very air trembled, and then shot toward Draco from the far end of the tidy little bedroom, scattering trinkets and scraps of parchment as it came, rattling the giant, empty chest harrowingly over the floor.

Draco raised his wand and shot off a wordless _Pacificio_ without even looking up, and the shapeless, invisible mass thunked to a stop. Draco frowned into the darkness, and then covered a yawn with the back of one hand and set about coaxing the candle's flame brighter again. It pierced pearly light into the shadows. The massive chest shook fitfully.

Draco sighed. "Oh, do shut up."

Another jolt from the chest. They were getting weaker, but there were still ten levels of banishment to go through yet. Eventually the Ekimmu would wear down into nothingness and simply fade out. Until then, however…

"So what were you anyway, some astonishingly unlucky Death Eater?" Draco sprinkled funereal herbs in a small, gradual circle a few fingers-width from the standing candle. The herbs caught fire, flaring into glowing blue light, and the chest jumped as if the flames were burning it. A grinding growl filled the room, flooding up from the floorboards. Draco slapped a hand down onto the floor and the growl cut off. "Shut it. You're already in his house. Bet you were hoping for some sort of vengeance on him. Unless of course you were just some stupid, maligned fan who couldn't get enough."

The chest shivered and the herbs continued to lick merrily around the circle until the base of the candle gleamed blue. Draco waved the scent around with one hand. "That girl in the hallway was definitely a fan. Probably wrote love notes to the great Boy Who Lived in her little fairy-pink diary. You know, _she_ wasn't half as melodramatic as you are. Could probably have given her Potter's autograph and sent her on her way quite merrily, now that I think about it."

The floorboards rippled irately, and Draco shot a hand out to grab the candle, splashing hot wax on his thumb. "Fuck! Fucking— You can just go suck on a Bundimun's excretory vessel. You're nine wards away from nonexistence, I'll have you know."

Bloody Death Eaters. He could still feel them, even within the tortured spiritual entities so many of them had become. It made all the sense in the world that the great and pompous Voldemort would leave behind more problems post-mortem than he'd managed to cause in his entire lifetime. But it could have been worse: it could have been a Gast inhabiting Potter's spare bedroom. If that had been the case, Potter would be in St. Mungo's fighting for his life, and probably taking half of his neighborhood with him, Unplottable spells or no.

It had taken the Ministry's Aurors a full five months after the war's end to determine why normally harmless entities— shades, wisps— could now injure, torment, and even kill the living. And the entities that had been dangerous to begin with now induced shivers in the bravest of souls.

All because Voldemort and his merry opposition couldn't leave well enough alone, not when it came to magic. Bigger spells. Better spells. Give the dead a chance to fight again for the cause.

For fuck's sake.

"Thank the gods I'm not one of the poor sods who have to handle the new Inferi," Draco muttered, picking out a perfectly cut piece of Zephyr Root and nicking the tip off with his fingernail. He tossed it into the candle's flame. The root tip skittered away just short of the fire, as if flicked by unseen fingers, and Draco fought the urge to pummel his fists into the chest until the wooden braces snapped. "You couldn't even get into the right bedroom, you sorry shite. This is Potter's _spare_ room. Spare. Like you."

The chest gave a heave and the candle guttered. The blue-lit herbs flared into stark brightness and then snuffed out. For a tantalising moment, Draco thought the candle would hold, thought he might be here for a bit longer, thought he might cut at least one more banishment spell off the list—

The candle toppled onto its side, dousing its flame. The room fell into dim light, and Draco heard a tiny, desperate wheezing before the Ekimmu fled back into the nether.

He sighed. Rubbed his head. "Damn it." He'd have to call it back. He hadn't the time for this.

The heavy tread of footsteps echoed in the hallway, and then the door at the far end of the room swung wide. Draco looked up to see Potter's messy black hair and thin-framed spectacles. He had a rich brown woolen coat slung half on and a pair of gloves in one hand. "Well. You've certainly been a while."

Draco just looked at him. Potter's mouth slipped toward amusement.

"Going out," the man said simply. He shrugged. "I've nothing in the refrigerator. You coming?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Am I?"

This time it was definitely the beginnings of a smile on Potter's lips. "Come on, Malfoy. Even you have to eat sometime."

Draco got to his feet unhurriedly, brushing dust from his trousers and straightening the fall of his shirt. "Still protecting your investment?" A twitch to his collar, a single touch to his hair.

Potter smirked in a decidedly sarcastic fashion. "Just trying to keep you from wasting away and dying in my guest bedroom."

"Why, thank you _so_ much for offering to pay, Potter," Draco simpered with a smile. "Very kind. You know, suddenly I've a craving for lobster."

"If you find some, tell me, will you?" Potter said blandly and left the doorway. "You'll want your coat. It's drizzling."

The entire way down the dark, dampening streets, Draco considered turning around, going back to Potter's ramshackle mansion, and back even further to his own flat. It wasn't Potter's straight face or hunched shoulders, nor was it his steady stare at the watery store lights ahead.

Not as though Draco wasn't using the exact same avoidance tactic. He just wasn't in the mood for Wizarding fare and all its ponderous social baggage. Not with Potter, not with anyone.

The heavy rain-swollen door to which Potter led him, however, had no tingle of magic, and lay at the end of a narrow, bent alleyway just off of Shaftesbury, under an old-fashioned lamppost. Muggle, and meant to look like gas flame. The door groaned as it swung outward, and the pub inside was tiny and cramped, half filled with cheerful people. Harry wound his way right up to the surprisingly polished bar and lifted one finger, which seemed to garner a pint of reddish ale.

"Bangers, please. Double order." Potter pocketed his gloves as he spoke.

The woman nodded. "And for your friend?"

Draco looked askance at Harry and then squinted at the woman. Her hair was an untidy bundle of sandy strands above a thin, tanned face. "Curry," Draco said at last. "Make sure your rice is white.

Her eyebrow flickered upward. She nodded again. "And to drink?"

Draco frowned at her. She stared flatly right back at him, then shrugged and slapped a tumbler filled with water down on the bar. "Holding your tab, Harry, till you've had enough," she smirked, wiggling her eyebrows. Potter grinned back, raised his pint glass, and turned. Gestured.

"Tables in the back."

Draco just looked at Potter, and finally the other man rolled his eyes and headed for the nearest of the tables in question, leaving Draco to follow in his wake in a more refined fashion. Potter flung his coat over one of the chairs, sprawled into another one, and was halfway through his pint before Draco even sat down.

Draco gave the fine amber colour of Potter's ale thorough scrutiny. The whole place smelled as if it had been hosed down in beer or ale or cider or whatever it was these Muggles tended to slop over the edges of their glasses onto the tables and floors. But it wasn't necessarily a bad smell, he allowed— to himself, where Potter couldn't get his inevitable two sickles in. Just… ever-present.

Harry cleared his throat loudly and Draco looked up. The other man was staring at him, a pointedly nonplussed look on his face. "What, Malfoys don't drink?"

Draco affected the most patronising expression he could. It wasn't hard; he used it so often. "So many other methods of self-depreciation in existence, Potter. I simply haven't time enough in my schedule for one so commonplace."

Harry nodded and took a heavy swig of his ale. "Still better than everyone else, are you, Malfoy?"

"Naturally," Draco answered flatly.

Potter eyed him over the top of his pint glass. For a long second, the only thing Draco could hear was the murmuring and laughter of the other pub patrons. Then Potter clunked his foamy tumbler down on the table top and leaned back, cocking one hand behind his head, elbow high in the air. "You know, I can't really imagine my life without you being so self-righteous."

"Funny," Draco volleyed, taking a careless sip from his water glass. "You've managed rather spectacularly for the past few years."

Potter shrugged. He tapped on the table top with two long fingers, and Draco found himself caught by the movement and its strange cadence. He glared at Potter, and the other man gave him an exasperated look. "What?"

"Whatever happened to your moldy old heirloom of a mansion?" Draco asked.

Potter looked confused, and Draco sighed. "You had another one before. Another one of mine, actually."

"Oh." Potter picked up his pint and held it up for the approaching bartender, who replaced it with a practiced snatch and a smile before departing once more. Draco turned his attention from her retreat and was vaguely surprised to see a somewhat disturbed frown marring Potter's scarred brow. The other man pondered the new pint with dark eyes.

Shrugged. "Couldn't stay there."

It was actually something Draco knew a little about, all things considered. Mansions were horribly good at containing haunts of all sorts. Draco wondered abruptly if ghosts had managed to find their way into the attics and passages of his mother's old family house as well as Potter's new home, and if so… which ones.

He nodded, straightening his shoulders and crossing one leg over the other with care. "So you just found an older, dirtier one, then. My congratulations."

Potter snorted. "Maybe I like mold," he said crisply.

"Maybe you like being stingy with your vaults," Draco corrected smoothly. Potter glared at him, pointing one finger.

"Remember who's paying for your food, Malfoy."

Draco smiled sweetly. "Remember who is ridding your delightful _home_ of infesting ghouls."

"I have not got a ghoul." Their food arrived, was plunked down with a certain matter-of-factness, and startled Draco with its rich smell. He poked at his curry and rice with a tarnished fork, then took a hesitant bite.

And another one.

"Good?" Potter had an annoyingly knowing smirk on his face.

"Adequate," Draco retorted. One thing at a time. He forced his shoulders to relax out of their instinctive hunch. Stretched his legs under the table again and dared to take stock of his surroundings.

Four old men with ruddy cheeks in the far corner, two just-recently-legal girls chattering animatedly on barstools, a young couple spoon-feeding each other some sort of tart just beside the door. For once, no one looked his way.

Draco turned back to his rice and ate stiffly. But not as stiffly as usual.

"Come here often?" he asked Potter casually.

Potter shrugged, but there was a fond light in his eyes. "Often enough."

He should have suspected, he realised two bites and a third pint later. It wasn't all that difficult a jump to make; the Draco of fifth year would have been all over it. But for some reason it had not occurred to him until now that Harry Potter might enjoy spending time with Wizards even less than he himself did.

* * *

The woman held the sack of Galleons in one clenched fist. Draco took it from her without watching her face, and slid the pouch into the folds of his coat. "Your patronage is much appreciated, Ms Cadwell. If you have need of our services again, please do not hesitate to contact us."

She nodded stiffly, then nearly snatched at the door, pulling it open and stepping out of the way. Her chin was lifted high, shoulders straight. Draco swept his coat over his own shoulders and passed over the threshold, practically feeling the cream-and-sky-blue interior of the house's foyer falling away. He could also sense her eyes on him, hooded and boring into his back.

The door clicked shut behind him with an oppressiveness that settled over his skin like a shroud. The gloomy sky lowered, turning the tree leaves vibrant and icy-green. Leftover rain dripped unsteadily from soaking branches and twigs.

Draco felt the heaviness slide over him. As if it had been waiting in the shadows of the trees for him to venture outside again. He looked around slowly, half expecting to see it in corporeal form this time. A breeze curled through the branches overhead, slinking among the leaves.

He just wanted to sleep.

Draco's feet carried him the length of a block before halting. He sat slowly, down on the curb, bending his legs. The wet pavement looked strange beyond the hem of his coat. Draco hunched there, frozen, hands hovering just above his thighs for an interminable moment before he reached into his coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

He got one to his lips and lit it with a flick of his fingers, then took it from his mouth and stared at it. "Fuck," he muttered, and shut his eyes.

It was one indulgence he still allowed himself.

The smoke filled his lungs and rushed out on a breath, rising into the chilly air in evanescent wisps. But he couldn't feel it. Couldn't taste it. The sense of satisfaction eluded him. Then again, it had done so for a long time.

Draco drew on the cigarette and then let his arm fall, let it dangle. He watched the ash drop off the end to cloud the small puddles in the street.

* * *

Her golden eyes were troubled at their edges, depthless in the middle. They flicked over him with an ominous awareness. "Draco, would you call your thoughts suicidal?"

Draco shrugged. "Everyone considers it."

She deliberated for a moment. "I would agree with you: Almost everyone ponders the implications at some point. But few actually consider the action itself."

Draco looked out the window, resting his chin in his hand. "Give a person enough time alone with himself…" He exhaled. Shook his head. "Some days the company gets old."

He could feel her penetrating gaze. He didn't want to face it. The lack of anger, of irritation there, always saddened him in the last deep place he had left. It was too close to the look on his own face in the mirror.

But she stirred eventually, straightening the couch's throw pillow and linking her fingers over her crossed legs. "Does your work still make you happy, Draco?"

He frowned vaguely. Outside the clouds rolled overhead, grey and thick. "Yes," he said after a moment.

"I'd like you to tell me why."

He looked at her. "Again?"

"I believe it's important to remind ourselves from time to time."

Draco smirked and let his eyes close. He thought through the darkness, the tempting stillness. "I made it," he murmured. "I built it, I maintain it. It's… mine."

"Something you can be proud of?"

He shrugged. "I wouldn't necessarily use that term."

She let out a pensive exhalation. He could almost see the frown on her features, the conscious selection of words. "How have you been managing lately? Are you still Polyjuicing?"

"I went without all last week." He pondered, and she remained silent and waiting. Draco rubbed his fingertips over the fabric of his trousers. Up and down, up and down. "Last night I just couldn't. I didn't want to… deal with all of it."

"With them."

"With the looks on their faces. The thoughts they don't ever speak." He shook his head and pursed his lips, determined to stop the mangled flood.

"Have you spoken to your Healer about the side-effects of the Polyjuice, Draco?"

"Listlessness. Fatigue. He's just going to tell me what I already know." When she didn't respond, he finally looked at her, managing a weak smile. "I know. Alright? I haven't forgotten. I'm trying, I really am."

She smiled back gently. "Stopping is only going to help you. Keep reminding yourself."

"Tell the rest of the world that." Draco lowered his chin, blinking twice. "Hells. It's not even addictive."

"I know," she said solemnly. "I know."

* * *

Potter's ghosts proved to be stubborn enough in death to keep Draco's Mondays and Thursdays eventful and his stomach… rather full. And Potter's choice of venue was as eclectic as the spirits that romped through his dusty corridors, save in one respect: they were all Muggle.

"How is it you've developed such a wide range of tastes, Potter?" Draco said, pausing in mid-bite. Pasta with some funny green sauce. So plebeian, but actually quite tasty when Draco wasn't feeling terribly belligerent. It had a savoury tang that wasn't like much else he'd had. Certainly like nothing in Wizarding cuisine. Good riddance to that. He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. "I don't remember you being so open-minded about what you shoved in your face."

Potter glared at him, slathering a generous amount of butter on the slice of bread he held. "Don't take it out on me because you've never tasted pesto before. Who's closed-minded now?"

Draco huffed, forking up another bite of noodles. "It's not through lack of trying," he simpered sweetly. Potter rolled his eyes.

Then pointed at him, brow furrowing. "Did you cut yourself?"

Draco reached up instinctively and touched his neck, just below his ear. He felt himself flush and dropped his hand. "It's nothing, Potter. Your wraith got a bit too excitable today is all."

"I have a wraith?"

Draco clunked his fork down on the table and frowned at the other man. "Oh, for Salazar's sake, Potter, don't you ever listen? I only told you about it three days ago. Surely even you can concentrate long enough to retain information pertaining to your own survival."

Potter let that pass with a sigh. "Wraiths don't usually stay in one place. I didn't even know it was up there. Should be sucking the life out of all the other spirits, shouldn't it?"

Draco blinked. It was rare to come across clients who knew anything substantive about his trade, let alone specific information about a certain type of entity. He hesitated, then nodded. "You should be so lucky. Alas, it's not that type of wraith. Thanks to your dearly departed adversary, we've more than one sort of wraith to deal with nowadays."

Potter looked up at him. "What have I got, then?"

"A poisonous one. Literally. It burned a hole right through your attic's back stairway. And I've no idea why it's not wandering around your whole house. Hells, I've no idea why you aren't dead already, considering the things that have taken up residence in your home." Draco shook his head disdainfully and took a forkful of sautéed corn.

Potter shrugged. "Always something."

Draco looked at him askance. "You're a little too calm about this."

"Why, Draco Malfoy. Are you worried about me?" Potter said loftily, a teasing grin on his face.

Draco fixed him with a glare. "That was my professional opinion, Potter. You know, I think that girl was protecting you inadvertently, just by being a pure spirit. Either that or the Ekimmu really didn't like the Doppelgänger. That creature's a real puissance. Scared the wraith right down on my head today."

Potter looked fairly intrigued. "Could this be because of the little fresh water fountain I've got in my bathroom?"

Again, Draco felt surprise. He didn't exactly like the feeling, and narrowed his eyes at his companion. "Very probably, Potter. Any reason you didn't feel it necessary to tell me?"

Potter's face took on a lazily puzzled look. "No reason in particular. I didn't think it made that much of a difference."

Telling Harry Potter he could have been dead and rotting as early as three weeks ago seemed to be an exercise in futility. Draco twisted pasta onto his fork and took a bite. Swallowed. "Potter? Next time, you might leave life-impacting decisions concerning nether-entities to the experts."

"Why I called you, isn't it?" Potter returned glibly. "And you're certainly living up to your good reputation."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "I haven't got any reputation of that sort."

Potter chewed silently for a moment. "Maybe not everyone has bad things to say about your company," he said eventually, playing with his pint glass.

Draco _hmph_ ed, unconvinced. He was fairly sure he'd get Potter's reasoning out of him at some point. It didn't really matter anyway. Reputation or no, Draco knew he was one of the best in his profession. Who gave a fuck what everyone else said? They always ended up hiring him when they couldn't handle their ectoplasmic messes any longer.

"Besides," Potter said, his tone more cheerful again, "you know your spirits. You saw right past the Doppelgänger. I'd no idea I had an Ekimmu. And now my mirrors don't keep breaking."

Mirrors breaking, and now the Doppelgänger, masking the other spirits. "You know quite a bit for a layman," Draco said archly.

Potter's face reddened. He hunched back over the table and picked at his broccoli. "I've… just done a bit of research."

Draco chewed his food and nodded slowly. "Well. You're the only one, then."

Potter scoffed and finished off his pint, then signalled the waiter for another. "Face it, Malfoy, you're fairly good at this job. I wanted someone who was good at this. You wouldn't call a plumber who couldn't fix your sink, would you?"

"Plumber?" Draco repeated, eyebrow raised.

Potter shook his head dismissively. "Never mind." The waiter brought him another beer and he drank a third of it in one swallow. "I'm just saying you're underappreciated. And no, I don't mind saying it. Bloody stupid to call in an amateur just because the alternative gets your shirt in a twist."

"My, my, Potter. I think there might have been a compliment in there somewhere. Under all the dubiousness, I expect."

"Well," his companion said, swirling his pint glass. "At least I have the pleasure of knowing that my spirit exterminator is better looking than all of theirs."

Draco slowly put down his fork. Took a good, hard look at Potter. "Potter, you're drunk."

Potter quirked an eyebrow at him. "Maybe I am," he offered loftily. But the look in his eyes when he leaned back in his chair was sharper than his words let on.

* * *

Draco threw down his gloves with a smack upon the dark marble countertop and smoothed a hand over his hair, drawing a deep breath. "My vaults seem to have been frozen again," he said icily. "Would you mind _terribly_ reinstating my credit accessibility before I'm forced into selling my business?"

The goblin blinked coolly at him from the other side of the counter. Always so unfazed, the goblins. Draco longed for that sort of demeanor, one he didn't have to coax into existence on a day-to-day basis. "The Ministry has ordered all outside access by involved parties restricted for the time being. A routine audit of funds, Mr Malfoy."

Draco felt his jaw tighten. He looked away from the goblin to get his bearings. An older man waiting at the next window was staring at him, an insolent scowl on his wrinkled face. Draco sneered back, glad of the outlet, and turned the other direction, only to find a pair of small girls tugging on their mother's robes and peering his way. The taller of the two cupped her hand around her mouth, whispering breathy sounds into her mother's bent ear. The younger girl stared at Draco with frank, curious eyes and one thumb in her mouth.

The mother looked up at him and her face hardened. She shushed her older daughter and turned back to the goblin assisting her.

Draco pursed his lips. He looked back at his own goblin, suddenly weary. "For how long this time?"

The goblin's glittering gaze softened in some inexplicable way. "I do not know for certain, Mr Malfoy."

Draco shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the goblin was still watching him. "I would appreciate a visit to my second vault," he said quietly. "Holdings for Spiritus, Incorporated, owner Draco Ignatius Malfoy, three-two-three-eight-eight."

The goblin nodded once and gathered his various keys. Draco followed him into the vault shaft, looking nowhere but straight ahead into the darkness.

* * *

She was watching him with wary eyes. "You missed our last session, Draco. Is everything alright?"

Draco scowled. "My apologies. I was detailing a voluntary termination agreement for Magdalena."

She frowned and sat forward. "I'd thought she was doing well."

He'd been annoyed by it all week. It felt too tiresome to get worked up again now. Draco sat back with a sigh. "She is the most promising entity banisher I have seen since the war."

His therapist waited silently and Draco spit it out, feeling the words prick across his tongue in angry little volts. "Her family couldn't give a flying fuck about that when they learned who she's been employed by for the past year."

"Ah."

"So." He cleared his throat. Uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. "I am, once again, without an assistant. The Ministry must be soiling themselves with glee."

"The Ministry forced her resignation?"

"Oh, no. I doubt I could find a way to pin it on their sorry hides. But they _have_ frozen my account credit again. Early last week."

She nodded. "How does that make you feel?"

"Exhausted. Can we talk about something else?"

His therapist's brows pinched in a faint frown. But she inclined her head and folded her hands together. "What have the highlights of your week been, then?"

Draco smirked faintly. "The answer to that should certainly indicate how dire my circumstances have become."

She smiled encouragingly.

"It's Potter," Draco said, and snorted to himself. "The arse seems to know every Muggle pub in the city. His liver's probably ready to throw in the towel."

"Do you two go drinking often?"

"He does. I've… well." He gestured with one hand and she nodded. "But he can certainly hold his liquor. Either that or he's secretly diluting it somehow."

"I can see you enjoy the time with him."

Draco rolled his eyes. "It's pitiful. Or… it should be." He gritted his teeth, shaking free of the inward spiral. Too far. Too _deep_. "At least Potter doesn't treat me like the scourge of the entire earth. _His_ reasons for disliking me are of a completely different sort."

Her eyebrows lifted again slightly. "It doesn't sound as if he dislikes you."

"Look. I'm just sick of every ignorant piece of shite staring at me as if I'm about to infect them with ultimate evil. They don't even know—" He stopped. And then his decision fell over the side into speech anyway. He would most likely regret it. "They weren't there."

Her eyes were open and deep. "It's maddening, isn't it?"

He looked away. "They're only here now at all because of what… what we did. At least Potter gets it."

She adjusted her hands into a modest clasp. "I understand it's the anniversary of Pansy Parkinson's death."

Draco nodded curtly. "Well, she certainly timed it well enough. It's Memorial Week already." He tilted his head and pressed fingers to his eyes. "I went… to see her. Yesterday."

"Yes. I went two days ago."

Draco clenched his jaw shut. But he could feel the words coming up anyway. The tremble.

* * *

The sky rolled blue and puffy white above, clouds skidding overhead in the wind. Draco could hear the steady pop of Apparition fading behind him. His black shoes sank into lush grass as he walked. Up ahead, a solemn group of older witches chatted quietly together, their similar black hair, olive skin, and linked arms indicating family of some sort.

The ruins of the ancient abbey stood proudly against the cobalt sky and ivory clouds, and the green grass looked rich and soft in the sunlight, broken by rows and groupings of modest white stones and memorials. It was crowded; wizards and witches milled slowly among the headstones and statues. Draco passed over the charmed border and the sounds of continuous Apparition went silent. He heard gentle murmurs, easy laughter, and warm greetings around him.

It wasn't until he passed a huddled group of people his age that the whispering began. He recognised them vaguely; from his class in Hogwarts, or the year before. Ravenclaws, two of them, and three Hufflepuffs. One girl from Gryffindor. They stared at him from beneath lowered eyebrows and snatched secrets from each other. Draco tightened his jaw and went past them, past the stones bedecked with glowing roses and strings of daisies, past the frozen statues of lost comrades.

There was no one near the small cluster of headstones in the east corner of the plot. Draco walked toward it, watching the grass pass under his feet. Hands buried in his pockets. The ends of his scarf whipped up and settled again. He crossed the almost-unnoticeable space separating the group of graves and the rest of the cemetery, and came to a stop in front of a smooth white headstone with bevelled edges.

 _Pansy Elisabeth Parkinson  
1980 - 2000_

A small bouquet of baby's breath and dark pink roses lay at the stone's base.

Draco frowned at it, puzzled. He glanced up, to the other barren stones in the little plot. Severus Snape. Linus Vaisey. Cyril Warrington and Tracey Davis, side by side. Others with names Draco only knew in passing. None of them had flowers under their headstones.

None of them ever did.

Perhaps one of Pansy's sisters? But the whole family had moved to America after the war— _bullied out of the country after the war,_ his mind supplied— and it was unlikely that one of them was here. They hadn't come in the years before.

Draco looked around. There were many people scattered about the cemetery, some faces he knew. Nearly twenty former Hogwarts students gathered about the large statue of Albus Dumbledore and his phoenix in the center of the gardens, several with dark eyes and twisted mouths flashing his way. Remus Lupin, looking as careworn as ever, walking contentedly in the southeast end, where Draco knew the carefully tended memorial to Sirius Black lay. And Harry Potter, a dark coat wrapped around his tall frame, collar turned high to guard his throat from the wind. His black, messy hair tossed in the draughts, spectacles gleaming. His face looked vaguely troubled and he was staring straight at Draco.

Draco turned away, for once glad of the unforgiving solitude of the Slytherin plots.

He stared at the bouquet, its petals moving gently with the breeze, for another moment, and then focussed on the headstone.

"Good morning, Panse," he said softly. "How are you this fine day?"

The grass whispered around the base of the stone. Draco smiled half-heartedly and looked up at the sky. "It _is_ a rather nice day. I'd wish you a happy anniversary but I'm afraid I haven't the stomach for jokes right now."

He squinted down at the grave. "I miss you. There. You've gotten it out of me yet again." Draco shrugged fitfully, shifting his feet. "As always, I don't especially miss everything. For example, that horror of a dress you insisted on wearing to the Yule Ball, or the bloody Valentine deluge every February. But I do miss the expression on your face when you gave me those Valentine's, and when you wore that dress."

He sighed again and fidgeted with his cloak hem. "Been a lousy year, Pansy. You're lucky you're down there and not… up here. Sometimes I just wish that I could—" He shut his eyes and swallowed. "Sorry. Today's not the day for that. We're supposed to be celebrating life. Your sacrifice so that we could all go on living."

The sun parted the clouds briefly, making the minerals in the headstone sparkle gold and silver. Draco blinked, holding the thing lodged in his throat at bay. "Wish some of you were here. I visit Vincent at St. Mungo's, but he's… He doesn't talk much. They won't let me in to see anyone in Azkaban. Just as well. Nott would probably spit on me anyway."

He stared at Pansy's headstone silently, and the clouds shunted the sunlight in and out, turning the stone dark, then light, then dark again. The deep pink of the roses grew richer in the changing light. "Who gave you flowers, Panse?" he murmured.

"It was Ron," said a low voice behind him.

Draco turned and saw Harry Potter, face pinked around the cheeks, eyes trained on the small bouquet at Draco's feet.

"Weasley?"

Harry nodded. He stepped up beside Draco, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. "She saved his life once. He remembers."

Draco didn't know how to respond. The roses looked so fragile, their colour vibrant amongst the white buds of baby's breath. He remained in the grip of thoughts too raw to speak aloud, and then exhaled. Opened his coat and plucked one of the delicate ivory roses from within. Dew still lingered on the petals, protected by the charms he'd cast. Draco crouched and placed the long-stemmed rose in the grass alongside the bouquet.

He stepped to the right and laid the other rose at the base of Severus' tombstone. But there was nothing he wanted to say there.

Draco straightened, pulling his coat tight around himself. "I hate Memorial Week," he muttered.

Harry nodded, eyes a heavy green behind his glasses. As green as the rose's leaves. "You want to go for a drink?"

Draco nodded, and followed Harry through the throngs of people out of the cemetery.

~tbc~


	2. Chapter 2

Of course, he'd heard the rumours, that Potter was a poofter. It was fitting. Harry Potter had never much adhered to societal 'norms'; it made perfect sense that he would find one more way to be at odds with the Ministry of Magic. And Draco wasn't about to blame him for that at all. He didn't practice hypocrisy anymore; he hadn't the energy.

He didn't have energy for much at all lately outside of work.

But somehow he never seemed to have a problem summoning the proper reserves when Harry decided it was time to grace another Muggle bar with their collective presences. It might have had something to do with the fact that he was with a person to whom he could speak freely about wraiths and magic and messy wars, and not have to worry about the accusing stares or the whispered epithets. Harry did drink a lot, but Draco was beginning to think he would never really see a drunk Harry Potter.

That might have been a defense mechanism. A drunk Harry Potter would certainly double the attendant rumours associated with his person, a feat that was doubtlessly not difficult to accomplish as it was. Rumours often began with nothing substantial to light the fire underneath them. Harry's sexuality was so twisted up in myth that there was no telling where the end met the beginning.

There was nothing particular about those bars, or the clubs or pubs or restaurants, that might have tipped Draco off either way. He wasn't entirely sure when or why the idea even slithered into his mind at all. Some oddity of mental associations, or being around Harry more often than he was alone anymore.

And maybe it was the way Harry's eyes lingered after the barman in the ritzy little club on Monday night, or something in the way he opened the pub's door and stepped aside for Draco on Wednesday that solidified the inkling in his head. Draco made small talk over his water without fully allowing it rein, or knowing that it might demand his attention so fully over an hour later when they were preparing to depart. It was very sudden, just as Harry swept his coat off the back of his chair and handed it to him, downing the last of his pint with a smooth swallow that rippled his throat, before following him to the door. Once outside, Harry swung his own coat on with riveting ease, shoulders rolling backward, and the question was just _there,_ unasked, surprisingly demanding. Draco frowned and tugged his collar up around his throat against the light drizzle, and internally pushed everything down for as long as it took to put a block's distance between them and the pub. But the idea only roiled harder, leapt higher, and pressed more tightly against his throat and ears and lips, until he felt something might slide out of him.

"Potter, are you gay?" he asked at last, abruptly and right in the middle of their jaunt off the curb into a particularly deep specimen of gutter puddle. Harry didn't even look at him, just stared straight ahead with a blank face that looked older, more reserved than usual.

"Would that be a problem?" was all Harry said.

And Draco really thought about it. It felt odd to have such a focus again, on one specific idea. His brain turned the situation over sluggishly, unused to the finesse being demanded of it.

"No," he said at last. Shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets, as Harry's were in his. The only sign of response he got to his answer was a slight flush to Harry's cheeks. It could have been the wind.

Draco nodded, hunched his shoulders once, and walked down the night street, the large park to their right and hurried traffic to their left. Harry walked silently beside him, eyes fixed on where they were headed, and people hustled and laughed and meandered around them.

Draco knew the question he'd uttered aloud wasn't the question he'd really been asking. He wondered several times that night, and as many the next, whether his answer to Harry's response would have been any different, had the real question been uttered.

* * *

"I think he's asked me out on a date."

His therapist's lips quirked and her eyes brightened. "Has he now?"

Draco glowered. "Well, _you_ needn't look as if your worst enemy just contracted spattergroit."

She merely smiled at him. "Can't a person be happy for you?"

"I'd question that person's motives," he stated, and sat back.

"Hmm." She leaned over and picked up her glass of water from the table, taking an unhurried sip. "Does that mean you're questioning his motives?"

Draco studied his fingers. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't. One sensible reason," he corrected, eyeing her pointedly.

She tilted her head, admonishing even before she began to speak. "Name one way that he has hurt you in the last three years."

Draco delayed for as long as he could. Finally, "I can't."

"Well, then." She wiggled her eyebrows at him playfully. "He's already one up on the rest of the world, isn't he?"

* * *

Draco was halfway into the first set of banishing incantations when the wraith vanished entirely in a sudden thud of air against his chest and temples. It wasn't the right sort of disappearance. Draco staggered on the landing just below the attic, barely catching himself on the wall with one hand.

He blew out a breath. "Fucking shite! Where did you go?"

The stairwell only answered him with silence. Dust motes floated down through the light of his wand, but the chill air was gone, and all that was left was the ominous hole eaten into the floorboards. Draco shut his eyes briefly and massaged the bridge of his nose. Strong wraith, this one. He'd set those wards carefully; it should not have been able to jump the barrier between this world and… well, wherever beleaguered spirits went when they fled exorcism.

He'd have to call it back. It would most likely take another day just to find it, another after that to coax it into the open, and he still had no idea how it had managed to sidestep his wards anyway. The only explanation was that he'd missed a spot, or gotten his herb measurements incorrect.

The third option stole over him so gradually, like the creep of cold water around his ankles, that it was fully formed in his head before he even recognised it.

Draco jerked upright and felt a horrible shiver skate right between his shoulder blades. He couldn't turn fast enough, and he knew, so certainly, that—

The final stairway marched up into the gloom of the darkened attic. Draco trained his wand on the darkness, feeling his palm begin to sweat. He licked his lips. "Where are you?" His voice croaked. "I know you're there."

Something groaned, deep in the house, the heavy creak of weathered wood. Draco could hear the wind flapping about the eaves outside, eerily like a human voice. He couldn't quite swallow; his throat had gone dryer than bones in the sand. The attic door, once closed, was now slightly ajar. He stared up into the shadows.

It moved. There, on the topmost step, just where the light arced away, it leaned out slowly and back in again, just out of clear sight. The scrape of an unformed foot bit into the stillness. Something dropped down to the next step. The board creaked under its weight.

Draco could make out the shape of a head. The haphazard fall of a loose and dirty shirt. The thing swayed aimlessly, and dropped to the next step with a thud. The glitter of eyes shone from the darkness.

Draco stumbled back and felt the wall behind him. The thing dropped another step. It had a mess of dark hair atop its head, tangled and sticking out strangely. A hand crept into the light, and the fingers were gnarled, too long, too many joints. They twitched, stretched toward him. A low growl filled the stairwell. Another shuffling step, and a deformed, bare foot slid into view.

It looked enough like Harry to be recognisable. But it was unfinished, malformed. The head was too long, the face still in darkness, by the grace of the Founders. It whined, a drifting, keening sound, and wavered toward Draco. He gripped his wand, pointing it at the thing.

Gods. How long had this creature been here? The wraith had done the near impossible just to get away from it. Had it come into the rest of the house? Had it been in Harry's room while he… while he slept…?

Draco saw its mouth fall open, a black, huge hole darker than the shadows. A raw moaning sound came out, half-human, half something else. It fell down the fourth step, and Draco pressed himself into the wall. "Go back," he hissed. He waved his wand in an arc, whispering a spell. The Doppelgänger shook visibly on the stairs, and then let out a ravaged cry, full of fury. It shuffled toward him again.

There was a crash from somewhere below. Draco heard Harry shout something. The thing on the stairs before him leaned forward, shoulders cranking around impossibly. Stretching what passed for its hands down through the gloom. Draco threw up a shield and felt the thing's touch skitter across it, cold and sharp. It lurched down yet another step.

"Draco?" The door on the level below banged open. Footsteps came up the stairs at a run. Draco saw the thing falter, crane its elongated neck toward the sound. An almost-word moaned from its mouth. _Mmmmmmeeeeee eeeerrrrrrrrr…_

Holy gods.

Draco snapped his wand up, biting out a second spell through clacking teeth. Angry orange sparks stabbed through the shield, disintegrating it, and pummelled into the thing on the stairs. For one horrible moment, the Doppelgänger was lit in golden light in all its grotesque glory. It made a horrid sound. Something bumped hard over the wooden boards and the stairway was plunged back into darkness. Draco heard it thunking upward, and then the _creak-click_ of the attic door closing.

He stood there, breathing hard, staring up after it, and Harry turned the last corner of the flight below him and stopped halfway up, hand braced on the rickety railing.

"Draco," he panted. "You alright?"

Draco focussed down at him. "I… what?"

"I felt it," Harry said. "The wraith. It was suddenly downstairs, right in front of me, and I— I didn't know if…"

Draco nodded. Took a shuddering breath and glanced back up at the attic. The door was still closed. "The wraith is downstairs?"

"No, it's gone. It… vanished. I don't— Draco. What's wrong?"

"Your Doppelgänger decided to pay me a visit," he muttered, appalled at the waver in his voice. He rubbed one hand over his face. "Salazar."

Harry vaulted up the final few stairs in two steps and was there beside him, one hand clasping his arm. "Where is it?"

"Up there." It suddenly felt funny, so ridiculously funny. Draco fought against the laughter. "It's doing a rather poor impression of you."

Harry frowned at him. He took his shoulders in both hands. "Malfoy."

"I'm fine, Potter," he said, and pulled himself free gradually. He brushed down the front of his shirt. Harry was standing very close, not touching him, and that was almost worse. "I'm fine."

Harry stared up at the closed attic door, then down at the ragged hole in the floorboards. His lips thinned. Draco saw his tongue dart out to moisten them.

"I'm _fine,_ Harry," Draco said irritably. Gods. He hated being scared on the job. He thought he'd gotten used to— but there were always worse spirits, uglier, more warped forms of the dead. The futility of his entire job loomed for an instant in front of him. Any one of these ghosts could kill him, kill the inhabitants of the houses they inhabited.

He hated Voldemort. He hated the Ministry even more.

He became aware of Harry's closeness a split second too late. Draco lifted his head, and caught the glance of soft lips over his ear. He froze, staring at Harry, whose cheeks had gone a touch red.

"Aiming for your hair." Harry lifted one shoulder in an awkward shrug.

Draco swallowed. Harry was watching him, the focus of his eyes unsettlingly intense. Yet again, Draco found himself wondering what exactly Harry was seeing.

He felt unbalanced there in the stairwell, Harry standing so close. If he moved he might fall one way or the other, and he wasn't sure which way he was supposed to fall. He couldn't recall ever having such a fear before, not on the job like this.

Harry looked away, gaze alighting on the closed attic door again. "Is it safe to stay here tonight?" he asked quietly. His voice held the urgency of business, and the change stuttered something somewhere inside Draco.

He took a breath to gather himself. "I'll set up wards," he muttered.

He felt Harry's nod. "I'll… just go find something for us to eat." But Harry didn't step backward toward the stairs. His feet moved forward in Draco's view, toward him, the hems of his trousers shadowing the elegant slope of his feet.

Before Draco knew it, he was reaching out with one hand. Harry was closer than he'd anticipated, and his fingers bumped the other man's bare arm. Harry's skin was warm, the hair on his forearm soft.

"You want company?" Harry murmured, and Draco shook his head and lifted his face up, and made the conscious decision to lean forward. Harry's mouth was right there, slightly opened. Draco pressed his lips against Harry's, unmoving. He could feel when Harry's breathing halted, and just barely tasted the other man's mouth on his lips. He began to pull away and Harry tilted his chin up, caught his mouth and deepened the kiss, urging Draco's lips apart, trailing his tongue softly just on the underside of his upper lip. Draco let out a breath and felt Harry answer it with one of his own.

He raised his hands, unwilling to think about it just then, unwilling to give anything about it the proper voice, and pushed lightly against Harry's chest. "Go away, Harry," he ordered softly.

He could see Harry's mouth curve. The tiniest of smiles. But he couldn't look into those eyes yet. Draco turned and summoned his thoughts for the proper wards, and Harry's footsteps retreated back down into the house. Draco licked his lips, savouring the lingering taste on them.

* * *

He stared at the vial in his hand. The open cork was a shapeless lump in his other fist, and the potion smelled vile. Tantalising, and very familiar.

One Apparition away into the drizzly afternoon, a prim three-story white house with red trim and several ghostly residents waited. Draco studied the glass bottle in his hand. Nearly lifted it to his lips.

The homeowner was a wizard. A father with two small sons and a pretty wife, Draco was sure. He wondered how many of them would be home to watch the banishment.

For just a moment's time, he wondered if they would like the mousy brown-haired man that the bottle promised instead.

He set the un-drunk vial down on the tiny kitchen table before he could change his mind, turned on his heel, and Apparated.

* * *

A week later, Draco put one shaking hand against the wall of Harry's attic stairwell and levered himself to his feet. The narrow, winding space was cool and airy, the oppressiveness gone like fog in a breeze. Ahead of him, the stairs were blackened and turning to ash, dripping away and leaving the final steps up to the attic door treacherous or nonexistent. The door itself swung gently on its hinge, drifting on a draught that curled merrily down the stairs, ruffling Draco's hair.

The Doppelgänger was gone. And Draco was worn through.

He ran his hand through his hair repeatedly, gaining some comfort from the soft slide of it between his fingers. Shook himself.

Harry stood several steps below him on the stairs, wand still out and trained on the place where the entity had only just been. Draco heard him suck in a slow breath and let it out. "I can feel it."

Draco craned his neck around to look at the other man. Harry met his eyes and shrugged. "I mean, I can feel that it's gone. The air just tastes… cleaner."

"Are you feeling better?" Draco asked, shoulders twitching with his hunch. Harry nodded. Draco curled his lip and raised an eyebrow. "Sucking on you. Not as much as it could have, but… All the same."

"Is that why it looked like me?"

"Potter," Draco said with a snort. "If you think that's what you look like—"

Harry waved dismissively. And then got a funny look on his face. He peered up at Draco, a mischievous little smile across his mouth. "How do I look then?"

If Harry thought he was the blushing sort, he was in for a sore surprise. Draco smirked down at him. "Well, I certainly wouldn't kiss the Doppelgänger." And then he got embarrassed anyway.

Harry's cheeks flushed. He did look healthier, even mere minutes after his vampiric spiritual other had departed.

Kissing was still new. Not… Draco turned back to the attic door to hide his reactions to his own thoughts. It wasn't new. He'd been kissing Harry Potter for over a week now. Not every day, of course. But not just those two awkward kisses in almost this very spot either.

There'd been others. He could still count them on one hand.

"Well," Harry said at last, drawing Draco's attention back. "You'd better get into the shower."

Draco frowned. But Harry just met it with that same child-like smile. "Not going to dinner like this."

"What is it with you and dinner, Potter?"

Harry was already heading down the stairs. "Go home. Get something nice on. I've a mind to go to Amaryllis'."

Draco stopped there on the stairs, but Harry was already gone.

* * *

The Ankh of Amaryllis gleamed like a bright Sickle in the dusk, shoved neatly between a Muggle pawn shop and a dingy travel agency. Draco thrust his chin out, flicking the hair off his forehead, and straightened his cloak. Harry stood next to him, counting out notes for the cab fare. The cabby was still looking at them strangely; both of the Muggle venues were long closed for the night, and there was no one else in sight in the little cul-de-sac.

Draco rolled his eyes and huffed, exasperated. Bloody blind Muggles. He'd no patience for them sometimes.

"Potter." Draco jerked his head toward the trim little restaurant, its golden fairy lights shimmering in the twilit street. "For Godric's sake, hurry up or he'll call the Muggle excuse for a police system on us."

"He can't see it, Draco," Harry murmured absently, handing over the money. The cab rolled away, and Harry pulled his cloak tighter, stepping up beside him. Draco let it pass and studied the Wizarding bistro before them. Tiny on the outside, but he knew from past experience that it was quite a bit larger once one got through the impressively decorated front doors.

"Only you would barter a Muggle cab to a Wizarding restaurant, Potter," he said blandly. Harry was smirking.

"You live close enough. And I like cabs."

Draco let him lead the way through the golden doors, and the inlaid gems sparkled green and red and blue over his hands as they passed inside. The sounds of the streets cut off abruptly once the doors swung shut, and gentle, cheerful music floated to Draco's ears from further within. Harry swept his cloak from his shoulders and Draco followed suit. They made their way through the small, brightly lit foyer into the main restaurant, spilling into a much larger room filled with quaintly spaced tables and candlelight.

A waitress caught sight of them and hurried over. Her eyes skirted up and down unobtrusively, and Draco saw recognition in her eyes for Harry before she masked it with a smile. "Welcome to the Ankh of Amaryllis. Will that be for two, then?"

Harry nodded, and the waitress waved her hand with a flourish, snapping twice at the end of it. Two glittering menus appeared in the air in a shower of gold that vanished before it hit the lush cranberry carpet. She plucked them down and turned on her heel, leading them to a table near the far end of the room. She indicated their chairs with a smile, clapped her hands once softly and set two goblets of ice water on the table. "Please feel free to take your time deciding on your entrée. We're serving basted Honeysuckle Phloxfeather with a Trindleberry Root garnish as our special tonight."

Harry nodded at her and she departed with a bounce to her step, long black hair swinging against her back as she went. Harry draped his cloak over the back of his chair, and Draco took the moment to seat himself, folding his own cloak neatly behind him.

"I need to use the loo." Harry grinned crookedly from across the table, and it was the lopsided tilt of it that drew Draco's eye, and attention, fully. Godric almighty. Had he always just been blind to the expressiveness of that smile, or was it a skill Harry had developed once he was given a break from saving the universe?

Never mind that mouth. Draco liked thin lips. They made a smile that much sharper.

"See if they've got a good Cabernet," Harry said. "I feel like steak tonight."

"Well, fancy that," Draco said dryly in the direction of the ceiling, "he's got at least some sense of culinary finesse."

Harry's grin widened, but he said nothing, only turned and headed for the other side of the restaurant, weaving easily between tables.

Draco stared after him, then hunched his shoulders and let them relax. He fingered his menu, opened it to the first page, and gazed at all the fancy spidery writing. Was it a bad idea to feel so earnest about what Harry didn't say aloud? There was an odd sort of yearning in his chest, to hear what Harry was thinking behind that smile of his, a youthful, clean feeling. He wasn't used to it, not at all.

Should have felt strange. But it was nice to feel anything that wasn't dreary.

He glanced up and raised his fingers at a deadpanned waiter lingering nearby with a glistening pitcher full of ice water. "I'd like a wine menu, please."

He turned back to his meal selection, only belatedly reminding himself to look at the price. Damn it all, it was usually second nature to him. It seemed a lot of things were managing to slip away lately: remembering his cloak, or locking up his office when he left it on the days he went in. His mind was on too many other things, for once. Or one particular thing, he thought, smirking to himself. Salazar. If Granger could see him now, the way he was just barely troubling himself with his finances, she'd likely slap him with two more years probation, just to spite them both. He had no doubt that the woman would stoop to spiting herself if the payback was good enough. She seemed to have a perpetual grimace on her face these days. He wasn't stupid; he knew it had to do with the company her dear friend Harry was keeping.

There was a slight slap across the table, and Draco looked up, startled. A wine menu rested just beside his right hand. He took it up and opened it, feeling the presence of the waiter standing behind him. It only took him a few seconds.

"I'd like a bottle of Nereid Cabernet 1432, and two wine flutes."

The waiter leaned forward to look and then settled back again. "We're out," he said shortly.

Draco looked up and found a middle aged man gazing down at him. Rather… down his nose at him. Draco frowned. "Napa Moon Valley Pinot, then."

"Sorry," the man said, and this time his lip twisted the slightest bit. If Draco hadn't been staring right at him, he might have missed it. Something shifted sideways in his stomach. He straightened in his chair.

"Perhaps you might suggest something," he said deliberately.

The waiter just looked at him. There was a sharp clink of silverware to Draco's left. He turned his head on instinct and found a pair of piercing blue eyes in a strange feminine face glaring back. The woman was not the only one looking at him; her dinner partner stared blatantly over the top of his glass of wine, swirling the flute in light, slow turns with one hand.

It was the wands in the center of that table that clicked in Draco's mind, nestled there amongst the decorative sprigs of ivy between the candles. It could only have been an instant's glance, but it felt much longer. Wands.

Wizards.

Draco resisted the urge to swallow. He sat back in his chair slowly, smoothing a hand down the front of his shirt. It wasn't as if he hadn't known. It was a Wizarding establishment, after all, a well-known one. Famous for its food and ambience. And yet it hadn't even registered as more than a slight flutter in his nerves when Harry had selected the place. Now, he couldn't begin to figure out why.

Draco gazed coolly at the waiter, lifting his chin. "If you've something to say, you may as well speak up."

The waiter's stone face cracked into an elegant sneer. "I've nothing to say, sir."

Draco narrowed his eyes. A snicker sounded at a table further off, barely contained. How had the restaurant gone so quiet so quickly? There'd been music, but now there was none. "Wine, then, if you please." Draco managed to keep his voice steady and indifferent, matching the waiter glare for glare. The man's lip curled further, but his eyes looked skittish.

Until a voice behind Draco made itself known.

"We have no wine that you would care to drink, I assure you."

Draco turned slowly in his seat and came face to face with the restaurant's host. Tall, young, and obviously more than comfortable with himself and his surroundings. The man couldn't have been more than a few years older than Draco, and he looked every bit the rich, tasteful nobleman. His nose was long and perfectly shaped for the cold smile his face sported. "Draco Malfoy," he said in a low but very audible tone that carried across the room. "In my establishment. What a fortuitous evening for me."

"Your parents' establishment," Draco retorted smoothly, gaining fire from the flicker in his antagonist's eyes. "You are hardly old enough to take the credit for this."

"You must know all about the hardships of one's parentage," the man responded after a tense moment. "You've certainly lived up to yours."

Draco's throat filled quite suddenly with a lump. He swallowed, but it only took a firmer hold. Grew larger. _No. Gods, no, not now._ He busied his hands with his napkin, buying time to gain back his self-control. But it was already happening: that tight, cowering feeling he just could no longer seem to shake, the one that told him to stay indoors, to mingle with Muggles instead of his own fellows. It was so much easier to avoid it than to beat it down. He'd forgotten how.

"Death Eater," said a voice from somewhere in the room. Draco snapped his head up, but everyone was staring now. It was impossible to tell who had spoken. Smirks on some faces, plain disgust on others. He dragged his eyes away before he had a chance to register the hatred.

"My Galleons," he intoned in a low voice, "are of the same worth as everyone else's. You would be wise not to burn any bridges."

"Perhaps if you had any standing in society, I would care." The host's face was impassive, unfazed. The people sitting behind him looked positively poisonous, derisive, and enjoying it utterly.

"I'd prefer not to eat my dinner in the company of that man," an elderly woman said imperiously a few tables in front of him. "Perhaps you might do something about it," she continued, looking snootily at the host.

"I certainly intend to, madam," he returned with a gracious smile. When he looked back at Draco, however, his face was the same cold, triumphant mask it had been. Maybe a little more triumphant than before. "I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."

Draco's heartbeat quickened, rising half in indignation, half in… Salazar, he didn't panic. It wasn't panic. But it was close. The unfairness of the situation meant little nowadays. He'd ceased feeling sorry for himself over that. It was the presence of ire that got him, dug deep into his bones as it never failed to do. Draco inhaled. Summoned whatever retort he might find.

"Draco."

All eyes shot across the room at the sound of his name. Muttering. Harry stood in the archway, tall and narrow-eyed. Draco heard a few gasps as people recognised him and began to whisper excitedly. The host's face went blank, but not before flashing into interest. He stepped slightly away from the table as Harry approached. Every eye followed his passage through the room, and Draco saw formerly sneering faces go a bit slack. Edging into shock.

It was no wonder. Draco could feel the air in the room vibrating, very slightly.

"What's going on?" Harry said tightly, coming to a stop at the table. He looked the waiter right in the eye and the older man dropped his gaze immediately, face colouring. Harry stared at him until it was clear the man wouldn't be looking back up, and then turned his glare on the host. The man gazed back, but Harry was taller. Larger. And by the feel of things, much angrier.

"Well?" Harry bit out.

"Mr Potter. Sir. My apologies. There is a slight issue here, which I will have dealt with in a moment. Is there anything I can get you? It will, of course, be on the house."

Harry's gaze was made of two lurid emerald shards. His hand cut through the air sharply, silencing the man. "What… is going… on?"

"Mr Potter," the host said a bit weakly, trying visibly to draw himself up. "We've certain standards to uphold. We don't serve people like him here."

Harry's eyes went so dark so quickly that the host stepped backward, his mouth dropping open. Something tactile sparked across the air like a skipping stone. Harry's jaw clenched, and he spoke through it. "Then you don't serve people like me here, either."

Draco swallowed hard. Heat swept up over his shoulders, along his throat like a heavy circlet, and flooded his face. He could feel the pressure of all those eyes, and the unbearable tang of being rescued. It stuck in his throat. Draco gritted his teeth. He stood, wrenched his cloak from the back of his chair, and headed for the exit. Couldn't— _wouldn't_ — look at Harry.

For fuck's sake, why did the insufferable man feel the need to—

He didn't remember entering or exiting the foyer, or what shoving through the doors felt like. Suddenly he was on the street, being buffeted by bitingly cold air… and unable to breathe. Speak. Collect himself. Draco forced two deep breaths and heard the door open behind him. He didn't look, only began to walk quickly down the street in the direction of home.

But outside, his feet felt heavier than they had, like giant stones dragging beneath him. Exhaustion reared abruptly and frighteningly, and there was something ominous and new in it this time. Dead weight.

He half expected Harry to call out after him. But Harry never did. He only fell into quick step just behind, out of sight.

Draco walked on, seeing only the pavement in front of him, the clacking shoes of Muggles as they passed. Three whole blocks went by in silence before Harry reached out and grabbed his arm. "Draco, stop."

He was so tired. So tired of moving. And yet— Draco shook his arm free of the grasping fingers and kept going. Got six steps further and… wasn't sure any longer of where he was headed.

He had time to think of his father's sealed liquor cabinet, to picture it standing silent and alone in his darkened flat, before Harry's voice cut in again. "Fucking won't go back there again," he muttered. It sounded sharp in Draco's ears, the last living thing in a dull, quiet world. "Prick deserves to be shut down."

"Don't bother," Draco muttered.

Harry's step faltered. Then quickened again. Draco could feel Harry trying not to speak. But it no longer felt urgent to him that he silence those words, that he keep Harry from prying. It felt dull, faded. Large and swollen and slowly crushing down upon him. He was watching Harry's attempt not to speak from a distance, and he just couldn't fathom how any of Harry's words could touch him, even if they did make it out into the open.

Was this…? Oh, but he had his answer. He'd had it, over and over again, and he'd ignored it like some poor fool in the dark, ever plodding forward in a futile effort to get past it. This _was_ what it would be like. For the rest of his life. He was so young, _so_ young.

So many years in front of him. Of this, again and again.

His thoughts circled slowly as he walked, swirling further and further down, but always the same words. _Fate_ … and _inescapable_. As long as there were people to recognise who he was, there would always be the stares and the jibes, the threats. The disgust. Draco's throat was a patch of heat, dry and sore, and he could feel each breath coming and going. He'd never felt his mortality so distinctly.

Harry caught his arm again. "Draco, where are you going?" The words had the edge of distress in them, and his hand gripped tighter than before. Still, Draco shook him off. Continued to walk, picking up speed.

"Do you hate yourself, Potter?" he mumbled. "Do you ever just look in and not see anything worth looking at?"

Harry's hand came around his wrist so quickly the friction of his fingers burned. "Stop. Stop walking. I mean it."

"Oh. You mean it." Draco didn't stop, and surprisingly, Harry did not pull him back, and he could have. It was his neighborhood now; Draco recognised the apartment building on the corner down the street from his. When he came to it, he turned right and kept going. Harry followed.

"You can't believe what they say," the other man said at last, faintly incredulous. "Draco, you've never—" He stopped speaking, and Draco looked his way with a slow turn of his head. Harry was staring at him, brow deeply creased. "They're arseholes. They all are!"

Draco came upon his building without answering, opened the lobby door and headed for the stairs. It was hard to keep up his speed. Hard to get himself to walk at all. He just wanted to sit down, lean his head back against the nearest wall, and shut his eyes.

He wanted alcohol. He wanted nicotine. He wanted silence, and most of all, he wanted to be alone so he could—

—could—

The image hovered, but did not fully materialise. He felt it looming, having chased and chased him, and finally catching up here in the stairwell, in the hallway outside his flat. Waiting for him to find the proper silence.

"Go home, Potter."

Harry scowled. "Not a fucking chance."

Draco jerked his key from his pocket, strode the final few steps to the door of his flat, and shoved the key into the lock. It grated as the bolt clicked. He pushed the door open, and Harry finally lunged forward and grabbed him a third time.

"You're bigger than this," Harry hissed.

Draco spun, threw out his arms. Felt such _shame_ at the way his voice shook. "What does it matter, Potter? I'm going home, to my second-rate flat to engage in all those self-destructive behaviours that my therapist warned me against!"

A damp thread ran down his cheek, dripping salt into his mouth. The rest of his words choked in his throat. Oh, why, why had he even bothered fighting it all off?

Potter pushed through the door behind him into the flat, and Draco turned and shoved him back against the door's edge, closing it with a sharp slam. "Oh, go on, be the hero then. Such a void in the demand for that nowadays!"

Harry's green eyes hollowed in such a way that Draco felt cut by it, and responsible. Harry blinked; his head dropped to the side.

The only thing left to do was let the anger take hold. Draco wasn't quite ready to go down the other, darker road yet.

But he was close.

"Don't you get it? I don't want you to save me, Potter." Draco felt his lip split under his teeth and tasted iron. "You save everyone! Make me feel unique for once in my bloody life, Harry, and just— don't— bother."

Harry's eyes snapped up, but there was nothing of the small, chastised look that Draco had been expecting in them. Harry's eyes looked hunted, burning deep, slightly angry and slightly more desperate. Draco blinked.

"And what do you want me to do, Malfoy?" Harry ground out. He grabbed Draco's shoulders with both hands and shook forcefully enough to make him stumble back into the living room. "Agree with you? Tell you you're worthless like everyone else does?"

Draco shoved him away again, hard. "I fucking know what I am, Potter! I know, and look what I've done with my life. I've a job, to fill all those wasting moments I could spend dwelling on everything. I've hexed my father's liquor cabinet impenetrable to keep myself from drinking! I've been proud of the potions I refuse to indulge in because I thought— I thought it—" Draco could barely see Harry through the blur in his eyes. Just an indistinct fog of running colours. So like the rest of his life. "I thought keeping them around meant I was strong. The truth is, it only means I'm an idiot. I've had my way out all along!"

 _"Malfoy,"_ Harry snapped, advancing out of the tiny hallway, long coat sweeping about his knees. "You arse, shut your mouth."

"Why?" he rasped, and the quiet pounced on the word like a massive beast. "It's the truth."

Harry grabbed him by the coat collar, snapping him upright with one jerk. "Not the truth. They've all convinced you of it." Harry's other hand darted over his other shoulder, as if searching for purpose. "And I helped." Spoken in a cracked voice, but the fervour in Harry's eyes was still strong and hard and— Draco's breath stuck in his throat.

Harry was pushing him back with his whole body, and Draco could feel every line of him, every taut pull and shift of muscle. Somewhere down deep, Draco's own body gave one solid, yearning heave, and sorrow filled him because he— he _wanted_ — for the first time, he was sure about something and—

He met Harry's eyes and found them glimmering at the edges. "—Harry."

Harry's face shuddered. He tucked Draco close, right up against him, and covered his mouth with his own. It was a harsh kiss, forcing Draco's lips apart, and he gasped, pressed forward. Harry's tongue was all of him, strength and salt and speed. A hand locked around the nape of his neck and the kiss deepened achingly for one endless, spiralling second. Harry made a broken sound and pulled away, leaving him breathless and tender.

Harry wove both hands under Draco's coat and shoved it off of his shoulders, tracking down over his knit jumper, clasping hard at his hips. Draco felt the wall at his back. He pressed himself to Harry, not knowing how to get what his body was craving— contact, contact with _this_ person. Harry kissed his neck with an open mouth. His body was all movement and heat against Draco's.

Draco thunked his head back on the wall and felt his belt slip free. His cheeks were wet, his throat raw and aching. "I don't want your pity, Harry," he whispered, lying through his teeth because— oh _gods,_ he wouldn't give up anything Harry was willing to give him, even insignificant shadows of something that he could fool himself into believing was something else.

"Draco—" Harry's hands worried his fly, snapped buttons open with determined, barely contained motions. "If this were a pity fuck, I would be on my knees giving you a blow job." His breath hissed between his teeth, and Draco arched back against the wall as Harry's hand finally found what he sought.

How… How to put it into words? Draco couldn't find them, could find only gasps and phrases broken in half, and deep, desperate writhing movements within himself. Harry was pulling them out one by one with each firm stroke, and Draco gripped the other man's upper arm hard and thrust again, again, gods, couldn't stop. Harry's free hand found his face and skirted over it, brushing with his thumb just over Draco's eyelashes.

"They're so stupid," he rasped.

Draco sucked in air and pushed against Harry's hand, his groin, his body. "They're winning," he whispered on a breath.

"Fuck you, stop it. I don't _want_ you to be beaten. Merlin, why can't you just—" Harry swallowed the rest of it and pulled Draco away from the wall. "Not doing this here."

Draco's whole lower body was on fire. He snatched at Harry's hand, needing— He couldn't see anything through it. "No."

Harry turned back, much too far away. Draco grabbed onto him and pulled them together again, plunging his hand down into Harry's trousers, feeling heaving, shuddering muscle and sweaty skin and soft hair.

 _"Do_ it here, Harry," he gritted out. "Just—"

By the time he felt them falling, it was too late to correct it. Draco hit the tumbling softness of the living room couch with vague surprise, clutched on, and felt Harry's firm weight upon him, the quick arch as the other man gained his knees. Harry fumbled Draco's jumper off of him, yanked his own shirt buttons free and flung both garments away. His chest was smooth in the darkness of the flat, hills and troughs of muscle and shadow. Draco ran his hands up over Harry's stomach, needing to feel it, unable to breathe when he felt the stutter in the other man's breath. Harry knelt there above him, bent and sucked at his throat, kissed his chest, and worked his trousers halfway down his hips with both hands.

"You alright?" Harry said breathlessly.

"Gods, Harry, what a question."

Harry kissed his face, smoothing a tear into a smear of wetness, and Draco's throat locked shut. He shook his head and covered his eyes with one hand. Harry lifted it immediately and pressed a lingering kiss into his palm. Tugged his trousers down with one final pull.

Draco's flesh felt cold, suddenly bared, and he shivered. He worked his fingertips beneath Harry's pants-line and pushed until he felt— saw— mirror-heat and taut skin. Harry kicked his trousers free and pressed down on top of Draco, and thrust once, and gods, it felt…

Draco took Harry's face in his hands and kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin. Merlin, he couldn't breathe, and it felt so good. He struggled to get his legs up around Harry's hips and finally it happened and they clicked into place, and Draco's remaining oxygen left him in a whoosh.

Harry stilled. Draco hardly noticed for his own quivering. When he forced his eyes open, Harry was staring at him. Draco nodded, much too fast. "Potter, _yes."_

"Alright." One simple word. Draco felt a spell's shudder and then Harry's fingers where in him and he was that much closer to the end of it all. He bit his lip and shoved it back, down.

When Harry really entered him, Draco let out a weak moan. His lower back curved, stretched, and he squeezed his thighs and felt Harry's sides expand as he panted. Sweat dripped across Harry's throat, glistening. Draco smoothed it away with one palm. Slid the same hand up over Harry's neck, down his back. He needed to touch Harry, more than anything right in that moment.

Such a far cry from the veil of animosity, the dark stares. They all touched him as well, and he felt them as he felt this, but _this_ … this was new and frightening and glorious. And it was stinging the sides of the void he carried around inside him so much it was hurting.

Harry arced his hips slowly, painstakingly, deeply. Oh— gods— he needed this, needed… the _thrust_ … again… Draco's hiss turned into another moan and Harry's pace quickened just enough. There was something tightly contained within it, within Harry's body, within the skin that Draco clutched under his fingers and the muscles locked between his thighs. Barely controlled. Draco gripped Harry's hair, lifted his face, and found his mouth open and panting. He kissed Harry messily and gasped at the tremulous, sudden release of Harry's control, and the new speed.

Harry grasped Draco's wrists and pressed them back into the couch cushions. His fingers were tight bands of heat. His breaths became sounds, almost words, and then Harry slowed once, deep and long. The gaze he locked on Draco was shockingly aware.

"You are so _perfect,_ Draco, and none of them see it—" He wrapped his arms around Draco's shoulders and hugged him close to his own body, and thrust again, and buried his face in the curve of Draco's throat.

Draco couldn't stop himself from moving, his body meeting Harry's, more and more frantic each time. There was no way to quiet the raggedness of his breathing; Draco had long since given up. He clenched Harry to him and pressed teeth into his shoulder, squeezed his eyes shut, felt it thrum through him, quaking the muscles of his thighs and back and stomach, and slamming down into his pelvis so hard he cried out.

Arched.

Harry caught him.

Draco bit through his lip again, shaking uncontrollably, hips still moving weakly. Harry cupped his face and then slipped into the same spasms, tiny, helpless sounds streaming from his lips. Draco slumped back onto the couch, feeling Harry thrusting into him erratically, and couldn't make himself move. He was so tired, so… gutted. His skin hurt, every nerve was dancing. He hadn't felt so alive in months.

When Harry collapsed at last, the silence was deafening.

Draco blinked wearily up at the ceiling. There was salt on his tongue. Sweat? Tears. His own, he was sure. Harry's body was so warm, cloaking him from the cooler air he could feel against his forehead. It was his ceiling he was looking up at, but it didn't look like it. Perhaps because he'd never seen it flat on his couch like this, another person sweaty and naked against—

Draco swallowed, and Harry pushed up with a soft sound. Cupped one hand over Draco's hip and withdrew slowly. Draco shut his eyes at the stretch, the strange tug deep inside his body, and then… Emptiness. He exhaled.

He hadn't expected to feel it so deeply.

He should look at Harry, he thought vaguely. Just… look, look at him, see what was in his face. But his eyes wouldn't move from the ceiling. He wasn't sure why.

Then Harry solved the problem for him. A hand brushed his chin, turning his face the slightest little bit, and Draco's mouth opened at the sight of dark eyes, unfathomable, looking down at him. Harry was still breathing hard, his body was still pressed very intimately against him. Draco swallowed again, feeling heat climb toward his cheeks. He was glad of the darkness. Gods, why should he be embarrassed of his nakedness now, now after they'd— after he'd let Harry—

He cleared his throat and looked down, rubbing one hand over the nape of his neck. He felt sticky and tired, bone-tired as he hadn't felt in some time. The couch pressed uncomfortably into his shoulders and hips, but he still knew that if he closed his eyes, he would most likely fall into sleep.

His heart hammered. Thudding, thudding, and it had little to do with his exertions of moments ago.

Harry pushed up slowly, drawing his knees under him. His weight and body heat left Draco feeling barren, open and unveiled on the couch. He couldn't think what to do next, or even if he was supposed to do anything next. It had been too long, and everything was all twisted up inside his head in dense, immovable knots. The couch bounced as Harry got off of it. Draco sat up, unsteady on shaking arms, but then fingers gathered his hand up and drew him to his feet.

"Come on," Harry said, not much more than a whisper. Draco wondered if he should feel embarrassed again, walking naked through his flat, led by another man who should never have been there like this, all skin and silence and soft, climbing heat. His bedroom was full of shadows and slashes of light through his drapes. Harry said nothing else, but fell onto the bed as if it were his own.

There was a glimmer in his eyes, however, that looked like hesitancy. Could have been the light.

Draco drew back his duvet feeling loosened and not quite himself. A single side of his bed where he usually took the middle. There wasn't as much space as he thought. He stretched out on his back, felt Harry do the same, and made himself breathe. Speaking may have been necessary, but he didn't know what to say or how to say it.

The tick of several minutes went by, without a clock. Without sleep. Draco looked up at his ceiling and tried not to think.

And when Harry rolled toward him with a soft murmur, in the deep night silence of the room, and gathered him to his body again, all steady movements and tensing limbs and quickening gasps repeated… Draco let him.

In the back of his mind, Draco was relieved.

* * *

"May I be perfectly frank?"

She nodded, face passive and mildly interested.

Draco looked down at his hands. "He was good. Very… very good. No rush, no fuss. Except…"

"Except he did fuss," she inserted neatly.

Draco raised an eyebrow at her. "You've seen him, have you?"

"I've seen him."

Draco nodded and looked away. "It was like there was nothing else in that room—" _Might as well throw it all down._ "—in that bed, but me." He sought the correct words. "Of course there wasn't, but— He throws himself into everything. I mean, he's bloody impossible that way. I used to hate… But that's neither here nor there. It felt damned good last night."

She nodded, gazing at him thoughtfully. "It feels good to have that level of energy focussed solely on you, doesn't it?"

Draco snorted. Sat back. "Feels good all over, if you really want to know. In places I forgot about. I haven't— Well." He shook his head.

"Draco, do you recall what we discussed about holding back? Censoring yourself?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. Sorry. I just…" He found that perfectly asymmetrical spot on the rug and stared at it. "I haven't felt this… sore, if you will. Stretched. Loosened. In years." Bollocks, she had to be a woman, didn't she, and he had to be telling _her_ about it. "This will sound like absolute sap but it was like he read my mind, and knew exactly how to touch me. What to… do with my body."

He let out a deprecating laugh and ran a hand through his hair. But she merely stared at him.

"Have you considered that he simply could have needed you exactly the way you needed him, and that is why it felt like he was reading your mind?"

Draco inhaled and exhaled three full times. "No. I hadn't thought of it like that."

She nodded. Pressed her lips together for an instant. "Draco, do you think you're in love with him?"

Draco snorted again and waved his hand. "That's preposterous." When she said nothing, he frowned at her. "It's too _soon."_

She leaned forward very gently. "Is it?"

Draco did not answer.

* * *

He awoke in deep blue darkness that was not of his flat, but of a much larger bedroom. The space to his left was cold, the covers thrown back and the pillow still bearing the indent of Harry's head. Draco turned onto his side slowly and stared at it, then past it to the unfamiliar play of early morning shadows over Harry's walls. He slid a hand out and fingered the sheet. Shifted a leg and pondered the smooth, thick slide the duvet made over his bare flesh.

He couldn't even remember the last time he'd woken in another person's bed, naked and sleepy, and knowing he'd been utterly satisfied some unknown number of hours before. His body felt tender, fondled by hands he could still feel. Draco curled his knees up, hunching under the duvet away from the colder air. Harry's mattress squeaked softly, and the sound rushed a fresh memory back to Draco: more steady squeaking, the faint heat of his own skin sliding back and forth across the sheets beneath it, and the distant soreness of his legs pressing into his chest and Harry's weight heavy atop them. Atop him.

Draco exhaled and blinked, wondering if some sort of epiphany had already hit him, or if he'd missed it on its way past. He became aware that he wasn't exactly thinking, and a second later, aware of the sound of running water. Draco sat up, pushing the duvet back, and listened to the pattering in Harry's shower. He thought about looking at the time, figuring out how long he had until Harry disappeared for the morning. He let it go.

Got to his feet, still without thinking much at all, and padded across the room to the door and down the hall, listening as the beat of the shower got louder, listening to the uneven sounds of someone moving around under the water. Steam was just beginning to roll out from beneath the closed bathroom door when he reached it, and the moisture tickled his toes and fogged the light that streamed an evanescent arc onto the hallway rug.

Draco opened the door quietly and stepped inside, and the steam filled his lungs with a heady, settling heat, curling around him. Enfolding him.

He could see Harry through the fogged shower curtain, a tall, tanned, nude body standing under the stream of water, hands raised to scrub through darker hair. Harry sucked in a breath and lolled his head back until his face was under the water, and droplets flew over the top of the curtain to splash lightly on Draco's arms and face. He knew that Harry's eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He could almost picture it, lips opening and dripping with water that sluiced down and away over skin and chest and thighs and off his toes toward the drain. Draco reached out and grasped the edge of the curtain, inhaled, and drew it aside gently until he could fit through.

Harry heard him belatedly and turned out of the water, blinking rapidly and reaching to steady himself against the tile wall. His eyes were dark and framed by wet lashes. Harry stared at him, breathing through parted lips, and Draco decided he didn't want to hear him speak, because the quiet was so deep and muffled and cloistered in the small space of the bathroom, the even smaller space of the shower itself. He stepped closer until the water danced off of Harry's shoulders and flushed down his own skin, leaving the dry expanse of his back susceptible to the cooler air. Draco shivered and pressed close, right up against Harry's body, gathering the heat and moisture from him, and it was then that he thought he knew what he'd come for. What he wanted from Harry here.

Harry's hand closed around his elbow, a soft, damp grip, fingers rubbing gently there. Draco could feel the length of the other man's body, the softer swell further down against his pelvis, and the smooth, wet slide of Harry's thighs along his as they turned. Harry moved them around, letting Draco into the shower's stream, and heat flooded over him.

"Draco," Harry said, before Draco could stop him. Instead of shattering the silence, it only enriched it somehow, made it deeper when it fell again. More final. Draco leaned in, tilted his head and fitted his mouth to Harry's. It was sloppy, more of a miss than a kiss, but Harry inhaled with a hiss, and Draco kissed him again, harder this time, more purposefully. He lifted one hand to thread through Harry's hair, wondering at the familiar taste in his mouth, wondering that it was already familiar, and slid the other hand down Harry's back, pressing the slick skin until Harry gave into it and let him pull closer, down over the concavity of his back and over his bottom. Draco caressed Harry's hip. Gripped it.

Turned him out of the kiss.

He could hear Harry breathing rapidly over the sound of the beating water, and feel Harry's back expanding against his chest with each inhalation. Harry's right hand splayed against the tiles, bracing, and Draco reached down in front of the other man, took hold of him and snugged him back until he was pressed all along Harry's back. Harry lifted his head and let out a huff of air. Nodded. He was hardening under Draco's fingers.

Draco pressed his free hand to Harry's back, bending him forward just a little bit and whispering a spell. He slipped his hand around Harry's side and up to touch his chest, rub the hard protrusion of one nipple. Harry jerked minutely and bowed his head, and Draco could see his hair sliding over his ears and across his nape until it hung, streaming with water, to hide his face. He pressed his lips to Harry's back, manoeuvered himself carefully, and then thrust into Harry's body with one simple roll of his hips.

Harry grunted. His arm quivered where it braced on the wall, and Draco stopped, letting Harry go and hugging both arms around the man's trim, heaving middle. Harry gripped his wrist and nodded, a little jerkily, breaths hushing in and out in short pants. Still, Draco counted to five, seeing the numbers clearly in his mind, before moving again, and Harry's air left him in a huff, and his supporting arm gave out completely, and Draco pressed him bodily to the wall and thrust tightly, slicking a hand up and down Harry's side. He felt cold tile against his knuckles, and the extreme, contained heat of Harry's body, the even sharper heat of the water raining down on his head and back. Harry's face was turned, cheek pressed to the wall, and the eye Draco could see squeezed tightly shut, mouth open and panting and dripping water in full droplets. Harry's hips moved frenziedly against Draco's thrusts, pushing into the wall with abandon. Draco insinuated one hand between Harry and the tiles, took him in the curl of his fingers, and heard Harry groan.

It was the spike of a moment, the one perfect instant when Harry voiced a broken "ah!" and went rigid, tightening around him almost unbearably, pressed flush to the wall and held quivering there by his own tension. Draco's body welled with a curious energy at the sound, the feeling of muscles jerking beneath his palms and against his thighs. He arced his hips forward unrelentingly, heard Harry moan low and hard, gasping in his next breath.

The helpless thrusting did him in very suddenly, Harry's body going utterly uncontrolled and quick and desperate. Draco hissed and pressed his open mouth to Harry's shoulder, breathing harder than ever. Clenched his eyes shut so tightly the blackness wound into purple, and came, shoving Harry even further into the wall. It was all fog and shudders, pleasure winding like merciless snakes around and through his muscles, coiling tightly in his belly, bursting outward to the very edge of his skin.

He felt his own shuddering almost as if he were standing next to himself there in the shower, feeling water quake from his shoulders only to be immediately replaced by more water. Harry's hand skated aimlessly over what skin he could reach, touching at his side, squeezing at his hip and thigh, and slipping down. Shaking. Draco felt their connection in slick, damp, sticky heat, already changing. He leaned back without thinking and parted their bodies. Harry let out a sharp hiss and curled his fingers against the wall. Draco stared at Harry's muscular, bare back under the sheen of water now falling between them. Before he realised it, he was reaching, touching his fingertips to the smooth, shivering skin.

Harry turned, one hand straining on the wall. His hair clung slickly to his forehead, streaming water that slid down his cheeks and over his lips. He collapsed bodily against the tiles, chest heaving under Draco's hands. There was something in his eyes, in the parting of his lips. In the tiny, almost insignificant lift of his chin, as if he were seeking—

Draco leaned forward and covered Harry's mouth with his, and felt rather than heard the soft, yearning sigh as their lips met. Harry's hands found his hips and squeezed, as if they couldn't remember what they'd set out to do there. Draco tasted clean, warm water, felt the splash of it over his scalp and shoulders like gentle fingers, and the soft, wondering stroke of Harry's tongue against the inside of his mouth. His body tingled, the warm pool in his groin reminding him of how Harry's body had felt around him. Against him.

He pushed Harry back to the wall and kissed him harder. One of Harry's hands threaded into his hair and held there, thumb stroking tentatively at his temple. The other slid over his body like the shower water, down his back and lower, rising up again.

* * *

Draco stroked his chin absently. Her room was filled with lazy light. He glanced at her out of the corner of one eye. "Is it bad that I spent all day yesterday in his bed?"

"Does it feel bad?"

"Not… particularly." He craned his neck and felt the kinks begin to stretch out of it. "To tell the truth, I don't really know how it feels."

She crossed her hands in her lap. "Describe it in a single sentence."

Draco blinked at the shift and inhaled. "Only one?"

She nodded.

"I've never felt so…" The word tasted strange. "Cherished."

She nodded. "And why did you pick that word over all the others?"

Draco frowned. Then said, "All the others fell short."

~tbc~


	3. Chapter 3

Granger tapped the open file with her quill. "This week marks the conclusion of your professional probation. Yesterday, actually. But if I remember, you were unavailable for an appointment."

Draco frowned. He was well aware of the faint but distasteful grimace lining Granger's face. She glanced at him briefly and he just lifted an eyebrow at her. She knew very well who he'd been with yesterday, otherwise she wouldn't be two seconds from scowling like she was.

Draco wondered if she knew he was _shagging_ Harry. And then decided that her reaction when she did find out would be well worth witnessing.

"In light of your current situation," she went on, pulling two crisp sheets of parchment out of one of her drawers and smoothing them down on the desktop, "I think it best to expedite the paperwork. You'll need to confirm your understanding of your changing legal status. I'm required to verbally inform you of each section of this form. Are you ready?"

"For months, Granger," he answered dryly.

Her eyes narrowed. She cleared her throat pointedly. "Do you acknowledge the termination of your probationary period as concerns Spiritus, Incorporated?" she read.

Draco nodded. "Yes."

She noted his response with three taps of her wand on the parchment. Text bloomed across the blank parchment with a sputter of golden motes, revealing the following question.

"Do you acknowledge that this form is in no way inclusive of any other forms or periods of probation?"

"Yes."

Three taps. "Have you been in the custody of Ministry officials for any reason or at any time during your probationary period as concerns Spiritus, Incorporated?"

"No."

Four taps. "Have you been in trouble with any legal association and/or recognised peace-keeping agency, either Wizard or Muggle, during your probationary period as concerns Spiritus, Incorporated?"

Draco pursed his lips. "No."

"Have you exited the country of England at any time during your probationary period as concerns Spiritus, Incorporated?"

"No."

"Can you legally account for any and all balances, withholdings, interest, and/or debts accrued during your probationary period as concerns Spiritus, Incorporated?"

Draco smiled thinly and prodded his file with one stiff finger. "Only if you can, Granger."

She sneered back sarcastically. Three taps with her wand.

And the questions went on. Two pages' worth, past his intentions for his business, whether or not he meant to sell within one fiscal year of the end of probation, how he would be utilising his revenue. Finally Granger asked him to recognise her as his personal reclamations agent— such a quaint little term— and set down her wand.

"Read the document," she said, passing it to him. "If you concur with what is recorded here, sign at the bottom."

Draco took the papers. He read them carefully, attentive to the slightest possibility of error and subsequent loopholes, and signed his signature to the second page with relish. Granger took them back without a word, duplicated them with a wave of her wand, then stuck the original into an official-looking envelope and sealed it. She summoned her owl from the perch by the window and sent the document out into the afternoon air.

"That's over, then," she murmured, and straightened his file with prim fingers. Snapped it shut. "You're aware that you've three months left on your personal probation, correct?"

"Would it be possible to forget?" Draco drawled. Granger glared at him, lips pursed into a little moue.

"You _do_ understand that I've specific questions and phrases I'm required to use? It's not all just to get under your skin."

Draco thought about taking it to the next step for kicks, but ultimately let it go. He nodded grudgingly. "Yes, Granger. And I do appreciate your efforts."

Her gaze became a little penetrating. She rolled her shoulders back, staring at him all the while, and Draco fought against fidgeting. He wasn't about to wiggle around like a young child in front of her. He could feel his irritation rising.

"Yes?" he said caustically, at last. Her eyes narrowed.

"You can be so—" She stopped and gave a soft sigh.

"So what?"

"It hardly matters anymore. It's not as if I have a say in anything outside this office."

Draco opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but she shook her head briskly and changed the subject. "Well. I don't suppose I'll need to see you for another month. Your accounts are in order, I assume."

Draco cocked his head, unwilling to jump topics without gaining satisfaction, but enjoying the new outlet for his irritation. "As in order as they can be, considering the Ministry has given itself a permanent back door into my vaults."

Her chin lowered. "This closes them out of your accounts completely. They won't be able to borrow from your vaults anymore."

"I think I'll be taking my own precautions on that front, if it's all the same to you," he shot back, and watched her expression darken.

"You really enjoy being difficult, don't you?" she said in a clipped tone.

He sneered at her. "Oh, I don't know. I've been told I'm not such an annoyance when you've spent the proper amount of time with me."

"I suppose Harry told you that," she answered. Her lips twitched downward sharply. "I don't understand why he always feels the need to—"

Draco sat forward, finally interested. "Perhaps he enjoys my company," he volleyed gamely. "If you can even consider such a possibility."

A troubled look passed through her eyes and vanished. "It's not that," she muttered. "He acts strangely. When it concerns you. He's just…" Again, she noticeably stopped herself. When she continued, her manner was much more dismissive. "I don't understand him."

Draco studied her keenly, working his thoughts around. So maybe she did know more than he'd thought. Or maybe it was all just guesswork. He was just pondering how to wheedle it out of her— or maybe just needle her with it— when she cleared her throat.

"There are other documents concerning your personal probation that we'll need to get started. They take time to process. You'll have to get two letters of commendation. Your therapist can provide one, and the other will need to come from an outside source. We'll meet again same time next month and you can show me what you've—"

A knock sounded on the door to her office, and Granger's assistant stuck her head in. "Pardon me, Hermione, I'm sorry, but Mr Hornsby is here again, and I've told him you're in a meeting, but he's very insistent on speaking to you."

Granger huffed exasperatedly. "What could he possibly want, Amelia? I've been over his case until I'm blue in the face!"

"He says there are more papers that need sending. He's off his bloody rocker, Hermione, but he won't listen to me." Amelia was interrupted by a man's raised, indignant voice from one of the other offices. The girl winced and left the doorway, gesturing furiously for silence as she went.

"Oh, for the love of Athena—" Granger shoved her chair back and stood, eyes sparking. "Excuse me, Malfoy. Amelia! Amelia, tell him I have concluded all outstanding paperwork. He's nothing that needs doing! No, don't let him in here, he can very well—"

Her office door clicked shut behind her.

Draco rolled his eyes and sat back. Of all the incompetent, lackadaisical— He had a headache. He had places to be, namely that bloody excuse for a bank before the Ministry managed to find another method of getting its claws on his business funds. And they would, he was sure of it.

They probably paid snot-nosed interns chosen specifically for the amount of acne they had to sit around all day figuring out how to screw one Draco Malfoy over.

And speaking of.

Perhaps there were reasons for this continual account mix-up. He had no idea what Granger's filing methods were doing to his reputation with the Ministry. Wouldn't it be just like her to make exceptions for him in her perfectly obsessive habits?

"It's my bloody file," Draco muttered.

He reached, grabbed the file off of Granger's desk, and began to flip through it. Pending realty on the manor… Payment stubs for his parents' continued existence on— or in, rather— English soil. Records upon records of office visits summarised in Granger's antish writing. "Oh, bloody hell, Granger."

But it was actually a fairly pristine file. Draco sniffed, leafing through failed Wizarding lawsuits against him— Really, was an accusation of disturbing the peace truly necessary, merely on the grounds that he existed?— and his own signed statements documenting continued good behaviour. Duplicates of his business' charter and licenses. A few rather unimaginative photographs of himself glaring at the camera and grinding his teeth. Draco smirked. _Bet Granger loves these._

There were, surprisingly, several gold-embossed letters on his behalf to the Ministry, invoking chapter and section of violated regulations concerning their tampering with his Gringott's accounts. All signed by Hermione J. Granger. Draco snorted, grudgingly allowing gratitude the tiniest of footholds. "Well. Seems you can do your job," he muttered. "In one respect."

Toward the back of the file, Draco discovered an orderly packet of his monetary statements, attached directly to the file itself with some sort of sticking spell. He loosened the spell with his wand and flipped through the papers with darting eyes. Nothing in particular looked to be out of order.

He shuffled a few pages further and came across several older documents. One bore the old letterhead of Granger's office. Draco frowned. It was some sort of financial document he'd never seen before. Copies like it, perhaps, but this one was different.

Payments he'd made, the deposit on his shabby little office, the dates of sole ownership… _Proprietor: Draco Ignatius Malfoy. Reclamation agent/agency: Hermione Jane Granger._

 _Primary Benefactor: Harry James Potter, 2500.00 Galleons (as anon. donation)._

Draco's pulse beat strangely in his ears. He stared down at the parchment, at the three names on it.

Governmentally allocated, she'd said. The only good thing to come out of the half-arsed effort by the Ministry to rehabilitate the war's "lost souls." But it wasn't from the government.

Draco felt an aching sensation in his knuckles and realised he was crumpling the loose stack of his bank statements in his hand. He let go slowly, raised his head. Stared for a long time at the cheery flowered wallpaper on the far wall.

Government allocations… They'd already taken so much from him. That money might as well been his family's appropriated funds. His money. He'd raised the rest, sold his flat into emptiness, skimped on clothing, furniture, even food until he could afford to call the business his.

His business.

Draco stood with a jerk. His chair teetered and, as if moving through a haze, he reached back and caught it, set it to rights. The file lay open and scattered across Granger's desk. Hands moving slowly at first, and then quickening, Draco replaced the statements, fastened them back to the inside of the file with an adhesive spell, and shut the file gently. He turned, gathered his cloak, and walked out of the office, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

His hands felt clammy at his sides. He could still hear the sound of his own knocking, echoing through the hall beyond the closed front door. It was getting dark, the lamps just beginning to flicker on down the street. Draco stared at the heavy wooden door before him.

He hadn't been by in two days. Hadn't been able to consider it without plunging into a black, black mood.

Footsteps inside, then the lock clicked back. A shimmer tangled through the air, vibrating lightly against his nerves as the wards were lowered. The door creaked open to reveal Harry, backed by a dark hallway.

"Draco." Harry raised a hand and ran it through his hair, scruffing once or twice over the back of his head. He had on a deep blue shirt, hanging loose and unbuttoned; it parted right down his front, revealing creamy skin to the lingering daylight. Draco could see water droplets amongst the strands of Harry's black tangle of hair. The clean scent of soap drifted on the air and Draco's heart jerked at the memory of bared skin slick with water, the muscles of Harry's back straining, the perfect slope of shoulder under his own chin. The tremble of a hand threading through his own wet hair.

Draco looked away. His body felt like it was hovering, neither floating nor wallowing, but somewhere uneasily in between.

Harry pushed the door open wider. "Didn't see you yesterday. I was beginning to wonder."

The hug of Harry's trousers against his hips hung in Draco's view. He looked away again, looked up, in time to see a vague frown darken green eyes. "Draco. You alright?"

"Fine," he said and stepped forward into the dim front hall. Harry moved aside and shut the door behind him. Draco made it all the way into the sitting room before the room's unusual warmth registered. Harry walked past him into the newly tidied space and waved his hand. A third lamp flickered to life, adding its glow to that of the other two. The dust had disappeared and the room, though still dark, had gone from smothering to cosy.

"I cleaned it," Harry said. He gestured around aimlessly. "Just… looking for something to do. Thought your idea of using it more had merit."

Draco blinked, unsure of the tumble in his chest. He shook his head. "A lot of my ideas do, it seems," he said dully.

Harry's brow furrowed. "Well, yeah." He smiled, a small, tender smile, and gestured toward the hallway, shoving his other hand into his pocket. "Do you want dinner? I've made a curry. There's plenty for two."

Draco said nothing. He studied the immaculate shelves, now filled with brightly bound books, at the parted window drapes now film-free and revealing purple dusk. He heard Harry shift his weight, but he didn't look.

"Actually, I made more than usual. Sort of hoping to see you." The sound of Harry's sigh came on the tail of his words. Draco turned and found a rose flush over the other man's cheeks. Harry's face looked full and healthy, mouth curved almost shyly, and eyes alert and luminous-green. Draco suddenly found himself in pain, wanting to… So badly to touch that bare, golden forearm.

He clenched his fingers into a fist.

"Curry, then?" He met Harry's gaze at last and was gratified to feel the sensation fade. "Sounds fantastic. I'm in the mood to celebrate a bit."

Harry's smile slid easily into a smirk. "Don't know if it's celebratory, exactly. But I've some very old wine I can open."

Draco nodded. He took several paces around the sitting room's circumference, glancing over various titles as he passed the bookshelves. "My business is no longer under probation."

He felt rather than saw Harry go still. And then that wide, open grin that usually shook Draco's core was there. "Congratulations."

Tonight, Draco felt nothing stirring within himself. Just a strange vacancy. He smirked back. Winked. Turned to the windows filled with the ash blues and lilacs of settling night. "I don't really feel it," he said indifferently.

Harry snorted. "That'll come later."

"No, I don't think it will," Draco muttered to the window. Things began tensing inside, muscles, little stretches of himself. He felt his breathing speed up.

"You've plenty to be proud of," Harry responded. Draco could hear him approaching. Gradual steps. "Give it a couple days. It'll hit you when you least expect it."

"Of course." Draco let out a short breath. "Why shouldn't it? All my disappointments do."

Harry's footsteps halted behind him. There was a brief silence, and then Harry spoke. "You shouldn't be disappointed by this."

Draco turned to stare at him. Harry smiled back, a small lift of the corners of his mouth. He cocked his head toward the stairs. "Come on. Curry's on the stove upstairs. You can tell me how it feels to be able to snub the Ministry again."

Harry turned and headed for the hallway. Draco watched the lean lines of his back, the way his shirt creased at his hips, and the strong slope of his shoulders beneath deep indigo fabric.

"You paid for my business." His own voice sounded so tight.

Harry turned, very slowly. His eyes widened, awareness solidifying in their depths. He swallowed once visibly. Draco held his stare, was locked by it, and then something shot through Harry's face and he turned his head with a jerk. "She wasn't supposed to tell you."

Fire flared quick and hot through Draco. He clenched his jaw. "Keeping it from me then, is that it?"

Harry's head shot up and he pointed one finger at Draco. "That is _not_ what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?" he snapped. "That you were going to tell me? When the time was right, I suppose. Whenever that was. Or maybe you were just going to keep quiet and gloat behind my back for the rest of your life."

"For fuck's sake, Draco." Harry's teeth ground together audibly. He kneaded the back of his neck. "Don't start. When have you seen me gloating about anything like that? If I wanted to make your life miserable, don't you think I'd make it more obvious to you?"

"Perhaps you enjoy incurring debts," Draco hissed.

Harry stared at him, mouth open a little way, looking completely astounded and at a loss for words. Draco grimaced, suddenly feeling sure that his face would never form another expression.

"Is this about guilt, Potter?" His voice had gone flat. He could feel his entire body quaking. Struggling to burst free and lunge. "One more act of repentance?"

"Draco, no. That's not what I…" Harry wiped his hand over his mouth. He stared at Draco, wide-eyed, breathing in uneven, shaking exhalations. "It wasn't— isn't about that. I mean, it might have been, in the beginning, but even then I—"

"Spare me," Draco hissed, snapping Harry's words off. "Spare me you altruism, and your pity, and your compassion."

Harry's jaw tightened, and his eyes darted to the side briefly. When he looked back, there was a new grimness to his face, but a wild flicker struggled somewhere underneath it. "You needed help, Draco. The Ministry was never going to let you keep your business!"

It took Draco a few seconds to draw himself together. Every word Harry said took him apart, piece by piece. "So you stepped in. So graciously," he bit out. "A little deposit here, a tug of a string there, and suddenly my problems are all over."

"Stop it," Harry muttered.

"And the Mudblood was just a stroke of good luck. Or did you engineer that, too?"

"No!" Harry nearly stepped forward, but pulled himself up. "Don't call her that. She's trying to help you!"

"A fact she never lets me forget," Draco countered. It wasn't exactly true. But he could never, ever forget anyway. There were a lot of things he could now never forget. A new heaviness settled in his stomach and lolled there. "I'll bet it felt good. Such a long time to wait."

Harry's face was dark and cloudy. "What are you talking about?"

"Was it nice?" he said, and hated the way his voice wavered. "Fucking me through my own couch, into my own bed? You finally got some payback for your efforts."

Harry's eyes blazed. _"No._ You know damn well it wasn't about payback!"

"I don't know anything," Draco snapped. Gods, his… his whole body hurt. Because it remembered, and it remembered liking it. Liking everything. For once.

It made perfect, fateful sense to him.

"I helped you," Harry muttered. "That's all it was, I swear. I didn't have any expectations, and I didn't do it to hold something over you. You needed help, and I had the means!"

"I'm sorry if I can't justify it that way," Draco spat. "I don't need to be beholden to anyone, don't you get it? I don't need it, and I don't want it! And I thought that finally… finally I… I should have known it would never be so easy."

Harry's breathing changed, quickening, getting just a little harsher. "Draco," he managed in a low voice, "it's alright to ask for help. To have someone help you."

Draco snorted. "No one only helps others. Even the best of intentions…" His chin was trembling. Just a tiny bit, but it was enough; he could feel it coming. "Everyone helps themselves. I was helping myself. I was making something out of this fuck of a mess. It was my business, my life."

Harry's head shook, a tiny twitch. His gaze was fixed on Draco, the anger being visibly overrun by something else.

"What have I done with myself? With my life?" Draco stepped back. "I've done nothing. You've done it all. You've even done me."

"Draco," Harry said helplessly. Weak, no power behind it. One of Harry's hands lifted toward him as if reaching. An uneven shake of Harry's head. "No."

Something about the single word told Draco he should agree. Fall back and… It was plainly a plea, and Harry's eyes were lit with it. One last flame, burning desperately until finally snuffed.

Draco turned away from the other man. "It turns out I've nothing to celebrate."

"Where are you going?" Harry said hurriedly, and Draco sucked in his cheeks to keep himself from losing control over his voice, his words and his body.

"Does it matter?" he said softly. And headed for the door.

"Don't do this, Draco, _please_. Please—" He could hear the tremble in Harry's voice, contained only by the frail barrier of his very words.

He looked. Couldn't help himself. Saw Harry's face crumbling, jaw too tight and eyes glimmering and desolate.

Something swelled within him, to the point of bursting. Draco couldn't breathe. "No," he managed. It was all he could manage.

He shook his head, turned away, and heard Harry let out a tiny, torn sound behind him, there in the sitting room.

Draco tried not to name it. But it was a sob.

* * *

He didn't know how long he sat, staring at the wall. Only that it had been a long time. He hadn't eaten, but he wasn't hungry. His couch was a strange lump beneath him and the shadows had long gone still. It was late. Some bottomless hour in the middle stretches of the night.

His father's liquor cabinet was a dark hulk across the room. Draco watched it silently, and it sat there, immovable. Unmoving.

It looked like his insides felt: locked and full of the unattainable.

* * *

"I'm glad you came today." A short silence. "Draco?"

He didn't answer. He could feel her waiting, watching him. He didn't mind. For once, he _couldn't_ mind. He couldn't do much of anything.

"Would you like to talk about what happened?"

Draco thought seriously about not answering. Or answering _no._ He could hear the clock ticking, ticking his life away steadily and calmly. "Nothing of consequence. Potter isn't the person I thought he was."

He saw her fingers twitch where they were interlaced over her knee. "He's disappointed you?"

"He's insulted me," Draco said, jerking his chin.

She looked at him thoughtfully. "He's disappointed you," she repeated in a low voice.

Draco swallowed. His throat felt swollen and dry. "Everyone does. Why should he be…" _Why should he be any different?_ But he didn't have the energy required to commit to that sentence.

When he looked up at her again, he was vaguely startled to see sadness in her features. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, her brow wrinkled. He noticed it, but the effect was… Well. Nothing seemed to be able to quicken him anymore.

"But he is different, Draco," she urged after a moment. "He is the first person you've slept with seriously since before the war."

"He doesn't matter," Draco snapped, but even that sounded lifeless to him, and her mouth grew even thinner.

"You need to admit that he does matter, Draco," she said gently. "The first step toward healing is acceptance. It's not bad, or shameful. It just is. As soon as you know it, realise it, it becomes less of a threat. Then you can deal with it at your leisure."

Draco shrugged listlessly. He stared at the carpet, the same carpet that had bolstered several of the most emotional moments he could recall having. It seemed a cruel joke that the same carpet should be witness to two sessions with such opposing outcomes.

She hesitated. Draco saw her eyes shift to the side and settle there as she thought. When she looked back at him, he could see she'd decided on something. "There are people who are concerned about you."

Draco opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. "Who?"

"Ms Granger came to see me yesterday."

Draco shut his eyes. "She's not concerned about me. She's concerned about her record."

His therapist's brow furrowed. "She seemed very worried from my point of view. It was she who pressed that I Owl you immediately for an appointment."

Draco studied his fingers. He'd begun to think them capable. Now he just couldn't think. "Why would she come here?"

"It may have had something to do with the tall redhead with her."

Draco snorted dully. "Weasley."

"She was very upset with herself. I got the feeling that he was upset with her as well."

"What could he possibly be upset with her about?" he snapped.

"He's quite the vocal one," she said. "To her. To me. In front of me. He said you didn't deserve to be kept in the dark."

He raised his head slowly. "Did you know?"

She looked back at him without flinching. "I didn't know. She told me all of it."

Something wasn't fitting correctly. "All?"

She was staring at him again, he just knew it. This time he couldn't look. But she spoke anyway. "They were concerned for a mutual friend of theirs as well. I think you know who."

Draco clenched his hands over his knees, digging with his fingertips until he felt pain. "I don't care anymore."

Even he heard the fearsome deadness in his voice. She must have as well; her eyes flickered noticeably. She drew a deep breath. "Draco, I think I'd like you to come in again tomorrow. Just to talk. Or to sit here, if you don't want to talk. I don't feel it's wise for you to be alone just now."

He shrugged.

"Would that be alright with you?" she asked gently. Almost timidly. There was a lisp of hope in her voice.

"I don't want to talk about him."

"Draco…" She hesitated again. "Alright. But I think you should know that Ms Granger and Mr Weasley said Harry has been drinking again."

Draco let the silence fall back into place. For several minutes he sat there, not looking at her. Then, "I'll come tomorrow."

She nodded.

He was glad she didn't pursue it. He didn't know why he'd decided to come back anyway.

* * *

When his thoughts strayed— when he forgot and let the wall between him and them sag away— he saw Harry in his vast, dark house, with things in it that stole from him, took his face and his shape, but couldn't capture the essence of him, and so remained flat and horrifying and poisonous, and only the house itself devoured them all.

* * *

Three days later, Draco's nerves were fraying, one by one by one. He held his head in his hands, heedless of the tangles in his hair, and wallowed in being lonely in a room where he'd never felt lonely before. It didn't matter that she was there. She wasn't enough to combat the new empty places that had begun to grow.

They weren't really new. He'd only managed to ignore them before. And now he couldn't. Whatever he had left to cover them was stretched too thin over too many holes.

"Draco," she coaxed. "Have you any new plans for your company now that your probation is over?"

"Haven't been in," he muttered.

She didn't respond for an instant. "Why not?"

He shook his head, grimacing. Too many reasons. Or only one. "It doesn't change anything."

"You realize that this might constitute a breach of your agreement with the Ministry," she said at last.

"What does it matter? They'd like to see me slip anyway."

"Perhaps," she conceded. "But your business isn't for them. Those are your own words, many times."

"Maybe I'm tired of it."

"Of what?"

"Of working for people who could care less!" he shot back. It was difficult to faze her and he didn't think he'd done it. That realisation lodged a small ball of anger in his chest. "I don't need it. And I don't need to talk about why! It should be obvious to anyone who gives a shit."

She folded her hands. "I'm here to listen. Sometimes talking can help sort things out in one's head."

"Then you _haven't_ been listening," he seethed. "I don't need things sorted! I don't need to talk, I don't want to talk. Why should I waste my time on something that does nothing for me? They could care less if I'm helping them. It changes nothing, and I'm done with it!"

"Draco, what is this really about?" she said quietly.

"It's about me," Draco spat. His hands hurt, he was gripping them together so tightly. "It's always been about me. Me, me, me. I'm _selfish,_ remember?"

"It's alright if it is about you," she answered in the same unfettered tones. "You know that, don't you?"

He smacked his hands down on his knees, and for the first time he'd ever seen, she jumped. "Why the fuck do you care if I talk or not? Why does it even matter? No matter how much I 'sort myself out,' it makes no difference! It does not matter. I might as well be the same person I was yesterday, the week before, five years ago. I'm not a person, I'm a statue. I don't change. It's useless!"

"Do you think you've changed?"

"You don't get it. It's pointless, what I think. They don't care, and I think it's time I gave up on this silly charade and agreed with them. Make it easier for everyone."

Her eyes were a little wider than usual, and they were staring at him in such an uncomfortable, aware manner— "Why do you insist on disliking yourself, Draco?"

"Look at me!" he shouted at her. "Look at me, I'm not— Everyone sees it! They hate me, I hear them every day. They know I'm not worth it."

"I know that's not true," she said quickly, "and so do you."

"I don't know anything anymore," he said. He couldn't control the way his lungs stuttered, or the way his shoulders were beginning to jump. Gods, he couldn't cry again. Not in front of her.

"You are not worthless," she responded carefully. "You've a successful business, you've made a life for yourself out of circumstances that most would balk at. Many have already, but you haven't. Ask yourself why."

"I have no idea why," he whispered, and it was the truth, clear and complete. Its starkness frightened him. "I can't do this again."

"I probably shouldn't tell you this," she said, and her voice sounded very uncertain for the first time since he'd met her. "But I didn't want this. Three years ago, I… I didn't want to counsel you."

Draco stared at her mutely, shoulders shaking. She looked right into his eyes and did not flinch.

"I was so angry. The first month, I hated it. I thought you were nothing more than a spoiled brat who deserved to be unhappy. But I was wrong, Draco. I was like them, and I was wrong, don't you see? I didn't know you at all, because that was easier to live with. And then I sat down and talked to you, and listened, and I realised what a narrow, dark world I'd built around myself. They all have. You're not _selfish_ , and you're not _evil_. You're human, and you make mistakes, and you've paid for them more than I would ever want to see anyone pay."

Draco shook his head at her, unable to speak without letting it all come out. She reached across the table, squeezing his shoulder tightly, and her grip was warm. "I know you now. I know you deserve to be happy. You're a deep, complicated, imperfect person, with feelings that… when you let them out, there are so many facets. I'm humbled by it. I've never seen you happy, really happy, except for these last few weeks, and I— Draco, you have no idea how you look."

"I'm not happy," he managed to get out, and the words broke and cracked and scattered.

She shook her head slowly, so slowly. "Draco… I think for the first time since you can remember, you _are_."

And then it broke. Nonsensically, suddenly. Draco's sobs welled right over the top and gushed down the sides at last. He choked on his words, hiccupped, felt the tears drenching his cheeks. "What if— he doesn't— love me back?"

She came over and sat beside him on the couch. Her eyes were wide and sad, and not pitying. "Draco, everyone fears this."

He couldn't answer her. It was too hard to see past the embarrassment of being caught out. Alone with his feelings for everyone to see.

"This isn't just you," she continued softly. "Everyone who has ever loved fears this. _He_ fears this, I promise you. It's alright to be afraid when you put a piece of yourself out there like you have. You're falling, and it's alright to be afraid that you might not be caught."

Draco could do nothing but wrap his arms around himself and hunch against it, even as it spilled out of him. Weeks of shoving things down, years of it, just trying to exist. Realising it wasn't enough, and fighting against that knowledge. The world opened like a dark, black hole in front of him, ever swirling, and nothing was stable or stationary.

 _If he doesn't love me…_ He only managed the last half of the sentence. "I couldn't handle that."

"Do you want to be with him?"

Draco shrugged wordlessly.

She leaned closer and spoke right into his ear. "Does he make you happy, Draco?"

"Yes," he gasped. Nodded, until his head hung. "Yes, he does."

"Even if he doesn't return your feelings, will that negate how you feel?"

Draco shook his head, one hand over his face. She clasped his hand in one of hers.

"Then _enjoy_ that. Draco, don't stilt yourself. Enjoy how it feels to be in love. The rest will come, or it won't, but this is yours. Harry, me, them… None of us can touch that. What we think doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," he whispered. _He matters._

"Draco, look at me. Please?"

He obeyed without thinking about her motivation. She was gazing back at him, a tiny, genuine smile on her face. "It's your love. Your esteem. You control it. It doesn't depend upon anyone else, and you can give it to whomever you want. You've chosen him, and that choice makes you happy. Hold on to that."

They sat for some time, her hand on his arm and his eyes on his shoes. But eventually Draco had to clear his throat as best he could. "But after it all… all of this… he still might not feel the same way."

She smiled gently. Her eyes flicked over his face. "There's only one person who can answer that question, and it isn't me."

* * *

Harry stood in his doorway, face blank. Empty. One hand poised on the edge of the door, fingers loosely clutching. He had faint circles under his eyes.

Draco stood on the stoop and summoned his voice. "Is it a bad time?"

Harry shook his head and stepped aside. Draco noticed he edged further away than he ever had, as if he were clinging to the darkness inside his house. Draco stepped in out of the morning light. The door closed after him and the scent of Harry in the place startled him so utterly that he had to stop and sway, and breathe. He felt Harry standing behind him, rigid in the shadows.

Then Harry moved forward abruptly and came around him, padding on bare feet toward the lit sitting room. "Here, I've…"

He let it fall into silence, and Draco had no choice but to follow him, turning the unfinished sentence over in his head. Harry crossed the room to one of the old chairs and pulled his cloak off the back of it. He felt around in one of his pockets. And then his hand stilled and he looked up at Draco.

"I don't have any money with me. I can transfer it directly from Gringott's if you… if you don't mind a short trip."

Draco stared at Harry's hand, held slightly out to him, palm up. "This is about paying me?"

"No. I mean— No, I just…" Harry dropped his cloak and brought that hand up to his face. His shoulders shivered. "Don't want you to leave."

"I don't appreciate pity," Draco said, and heard his own voice waver. Gods, not two minutes in Harry's presence and he was already brought to this state. He didn't know what he'd planned to say, but he suspected this wasn't it.

"I don't pity you." Harry was looking at him so plainly, without a wall in the world between Draco and his emotions. It was painful to watch, and Draco wanted to stop it, cut the fountain of that pain off at its source. He couldn't take the look in Harry's eyes. As if he'd finally lost what could not be lost.

Draco swallowed. He'd been alright on his own, but now, smelling Harry and knowing how close he was, all the emotions he'd been holding at arm's length became absolutely fearful and intense, and real all over again. The threat of rejection was still there, hovering over everything. He felt himself becoming mired in them again.

"What do you want from me?" he croaked, abandoning the sense of shame at the way his voice sounded, just needing to get the words out. To know.

Harry stared at him. His body trembled. He shook his head and his eyes dropped.

"I don't want you to leave," was all he said.

Draco pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to smooth his emotions into some order. He couldn't think. All he wanted was to move, to where Harry was, and he couldn't just walk over there, it was too much of an unknown. _Why, why can't you just risk?_ Just give up and jump? "Do you think you're better than me?"

"No," Harry whispered. "Draco, no. That's not…" His voice failed, and Harry stood there, eyes unfocussed, looking as if he just couldn't speak anymore.

"I want to know why," Draco said unsteadily. "Why you felt the need to do what you did. And then hide it. If it was so pure and so necessary. If it _was_ pity, I want to know."

"Draco," Harry said wearily. Sadly. "Whatever you want to know, I'll tell you. I'll tell you about going to the bank two years ago, about keeping Hermione quiet. I'll tell you why I Flooed your company three months ago. But—" He faltered and swallowed hard. His jaw was so tightly set his lips were pale. "I had my reasons, and they weren't what you think. Please listen to me. If you listen to no one else, please just listen to me."

Please trust me.

 _Do you really need to know why he did it?_ she'd said. _Would that help you understand? Would it change anything?_

Draco had no idea. Harry's plea rang in his head. Draco spoke without thinking. "No."

Harry let out a very small sound. He pressed the back of one hand against his mouth. Inhaled deeply and shakily. Nodded. "Alright," he said. "Alright."

He came back across the room and made to move around Draco, toward the front door, not looking at him. Draco caught his arm and Harry stopped as if struck. His lips were white and bloodless, his whole body was a fitful tremor under Draco's hand. He smelled clean and sad, and lost. Draco leaned forward as if drawn, pulling Harry to him. He met Harry's closed mouth with his own and felt it open, felt air rush out in a broken gasp over his lips. Draco touched inside with his tongue and the taste of Harry flooded through his mouth and up into his head, a dizzy mix of memories. He felt something snap off inside him, leaned in, kissed harder, more deeply until he couldn't breathe. He pulled back.

"No, I don't need to know," Draco whispered against Harry's lips.

Harry's eyes squeezed shut and two tears rolled down his cheeks, leaving glistening paths behind them. Draco took Harry's face in both hands, feeling the damp lines and the soft skin and the stubble. Harry's body sagged against him. Draco felt the firm curve of arms around his back and waist, squeezing the breath out of him, just a little too tight. It didn't matter. He knew this body so well it was startling. Terrifying, and glorious. He _wanted_ it with everything he was.

Their mouths parted twice for air, breathless and frantic, and artless. The third time, Draco tried to give Harry reasons and assurances. Promises.

"I'm not going to leave," was all he managed to get out.

Harry's grip tightened, and he kissed him again.

~fin~


End file.
